


The River

by Dolias



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Light Angst, Nargothrond, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolias/pseuds/Dolias
Summary: Gwindor and Finduilas were the envy of all lovers in Nargothrond, until Gwindor's fateful capture and thralldom at Morgoth's hands. Upon his return, nothing is the same. Told in scenes alternating between their innocent and irresponsible love before the tragedy, and the strange, painful relationship they share afterward.





	1. Prologue/Faelivrin

Prologue: Passage from _The Silmarillion_

> Then the Captain of Morgoth sent out riders with tokens of parley, and they rode up before the outworks of the Barad Eithel. With them they brought Gelmir son of Guilin, that lord of Nargothrond whom they had captured in the Bragollach; and they had blinded him. Then the heralds of Angband showed him forth, crying: ‘We have many more such at home, but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so.’ 
> 
> And they hewed off Gelmir’s hands and feet, and his head last, within sight of the Elves, and left him.
> 
> By ill chance, at that place in the outworks stood Gwindor of Nargothrond, the brother of Gelmir. Now his wrath was kindled to madness, and he leapt forth on horseback, and many riders with him; and they pursued the heralds and slew them, and drove on deep into the main host. 
> 
> And seeing this all the host of the Noldor was set on fire, and Fingon put on his white helm and sounded his trumpets, and all the host of Hithlum leapt forth from the hills in sudden onslaught. The light of the drawing of the swords of the Noldor was like a fire in a field of reeds; and so fell and swift was their onset that almost the designs of Morgoth went astray. Before the army that he sent westward could be strengthened it was swept away, and the banners of Fingon passed over Anfauglith and were raised before the walls of Angband. 
> 
> Ever in the forefront of that battle went Gwindor and the Elves of Nargothrond, and even now they could not be restrained; and they burst through the Gate and slew the guards upon the very stairs of Angband, and Morgoth trembled upon his deep throne, hearing them beat upon his doors. 
> 
> But they were trapped there, and all were slain save Gwindor only, whom they took alive; for Fingon could not come to their aid. By many secret doors in Thangorodrim Morgoth had let issue forth his main host that he held in waiting, and Fingon was beaten back with great loss from the walls. 
> 
> Then in the plain of Anfauglith, on the fourth day of the war, there began Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Unnumbered Tears, for no song or tale can contain all its grief.
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

* * *

Faelivrin

> ...and so greatly did Gwindor love her beauty that he named her Faelivrin, which is the gleam of the sun on the pools of Ivrin…
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Gwindor remembered, oftentimes in the darkness of his captivity, those days at the height of summer when he and Finduilas went running down the gorge to the river Narog. Beneath high noon, it glinted like a dragon’s horde, powerful and unrelenting on its southward course. Finduilas used to tie up the hem of her dress above her knees, kick her shoes off onto the bank, and splash into the warm crystal water, scattering swans into the heavens. 

He would follow her into pounding current, blinded by the gold of her hair, his heart soaring in the sound of her laughter. In the middle of the river she would spin around and put her hands on his shoulders; he would take her by the waist and lift her wet, shimmering body into his arms. 

He remembered her weight, her dress plastered over her hot skin with the hem knotted and the sleeves rolled up, and the water beading at the ends of her braids, streaming over his brown forearms.

Traveling elves once traded rumors of her beauty across the ways of Beleriand: they bickered over whether Lúthien of Doriath, or Idril of Gondolin, or Finduilas of Nargothrond was the fairest among the _ elleth _ of Arda; they compared these women to one another as though they were horses or diamonds. 

But Finduilas, though she blushed demurely at these rumors, took a vain and secret pride at the notoriety of her own unattainable splendor. She was young then in the ways of the world, a highbred filly prancing through her paces before the powerful men who owned her. She saw her life unrolling before her as tidy and luxurious as a silk carpet at her feet: a life of pearl-brocaded gowns, white doves and roses, golden-haired princelings following behind her like cygnets, and Gwindor ever at her side. 

Those who knew of Gwindor back then, lean and dark at his beautiful, impulsive prime, thought Finduilas lucky to have him. Before his brother Gelmir was taken, before the bitter years following that would lay waste to his youth and spirit, Gwindor’s laugh was as clear and bright as the tumble of Narog in the rain. 

And he loved Finduilas every way he knew how. By day he named her Faelivrin-- the gleam of the sun on the pools of Ivrin, from which the great Narog arose. By night he would awaken to the thought of her, to find the heat from his skin burning through his soaked sheets. 

They were betrothed on the first day of summer in the Year of the Sun 457, when yellow _ elanor _ carpeted the hills in full bloom. That night, every street in the city echoed with the weeping of every girl in Nargothrond, cursing the good fortune of Finduilas.

But Finduilas lingered alone in her gilded bedroom after Gwindor had left her, and all her well-wishers had been sent away. A sudden loneliness came over her. It was so quiet here, behind her embroidered curtains. She had admirers, but no friends; she had never wanted them. In har vanity, she had shunned company here at the pinnacle of her perfection. There could only be one most-coveted woman in the land, and the title belonged to her only.

Brown-skinned Víressë saw the princess quietly slip away, and pitied her. The ladies of King Orodreth’sthe court spoke of Finduilas often behind closed doors, as they did now:

“So. Pretty Finduilas has finally realized no one really likes her, after all.”

“She needs no pity. It serves her right, the way she flounces around with her nose in the air, tossing her curls--”

“--swallowing Gwindor’s face up in the towers where everyone can see, _ deigning _ every now and again to look down at the rest of us, with that little red smile...”

“Oh, I don’t even think she’s capable of that much malice. She’s so shallow and empty-headed, she doesn’t even mean to be as supercilious she is.”

Here, Víressë glanced up coldly from her needlepoint.

“Only envious fools need mock Finduilas. She is more than what you see.”

They fell silent at once. In spite of her youth and smallness, Víressë scared them all a little. Though she was quiet, and strange, and never seemed to notice or mind what they all thought of her, she was somehow the clear leader of this little circle of women. And she always had the final word.

But Víressë only rolled her eyes, tucked her brown hair behind her ear, and resumed her needlework, keeping her own counsel. In her eyes, Finduilas was neither dull nor mean. A little vain, yes; helpless as a newborn lamb, and inordinately preoccupied with giggling prettily on the riverbank. But her heart was in the right place, and she really did love Gwindor with all of her pure, simple being. 

Víressë was uncharacteristically protective of Finduilas, much to her own annoyance. It was no fun bullying people who couldn’t defend themselves.


	2. Gwindor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his long captivity in Angband, and the years spent making his way home, Gwindor returns to the City of Nargothrond. For the first time since his departure, he faces the woman he left behind.

> At first his own people did not know Gwindor, who went out young and strong, and returned now seeming as one of the aged among mortal Men, because of his torments and his labours; but Finduilas daughter of Orodreth the King knew him and welcomed him…
> 
> For Gwindor’s sake Túrin was admitted with him into Nargothrond, and he dwelt there in honour.
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

The empty stone hall looked so vast, and he looked so small. He crouched alone near the far wall with his back toward her, colorless and gaunt. He had traded the rags in which he had arrived yesterday for his old clothes, but they draped loosely around his wasted frame like dying bark on a tree. His hair, once sleek dark brown, hung lank over his thin face.

Her footfalls echoed from the towering ceiling. She noticed him turn his head a fraction of an inch at the sound, but he would not yet look at her. Finduilas slowed her steps, filled with sudden apprehension. 

He had been veiled in dust and blood when he came to the gates of Nargothrond yesterday with the Man named Agarwaen. Even so, the Elves had recoiled in horror to see him. She alone had identified him as the man who left eighteen hard years ago, and but for her pleas they would have been turned away. Though he was grotesquely changed, she would have known his crystal-blue eyes anywhere, and had recognized them from even from a distance, even as he was pulling his cowl over his remaining features in shame. 

Before she had come here, her father, Orodreth the King, had taken her by the shoulders, and had sternly warned her that Gwindor would not be as she had remembered. In response to this she had stamped her foot, insisting her love for him would be constant, no matter what lay beneath that cloak. 

Now she wished she could recall those brazen words. Finduilas wondered suddenly, and with an accompanying pang of shame at her own selfishness, whether things would be simpler had Gwindor simply died in Angband. Yet the fact remained that she didn’t want to meet the stranger who sat before her now: this ugly, wasted wraith who had replaced the man she loved. 

Finduilas drew in her breath, steeling herself.

“Gwindor,” she called softly.

How small and pitiful her stammer sounded, even to her own ears. This was the furthest thing from the joyful reunion she had envisioned: she had pictured his strong arms lifting her into the sky; she had imagined basking in his pale blue gaze, in his old smile, in his old laugh. That old dream seemed childish to her now. How could she have thought the man taken years ago would return, unchanged from the day he left her?

“Well met, Fae,” said Gwindor. He still faced the wall.

A tightness filled Finduilas’s throat when she heard his old nickname for her. As tired, as quiet as Gwindor’s voice seemed, she shivered to hear its familiarity. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, she ran the rest of the way over, threw her arms around his waist, and laid her face on his back. His bony shoulderblade dug into her cheek. She cried-- her tears ran into the loose fabric of his old shirt like rain over dried wastelands. 

He was back. It was all that mattered for now. If they didn’t look at one another, if they simply held each other like this, they could pretend for the moment that everything between them was as it had been: that they could slip away down to the river right then, as they used to; that they could take back every second together they had lost.

“I’ve missed you, Gwindor,” said Finduilas, choking on the words, “So much. I thought you were dead.”

“I’ve missed you too,” said Gwindor, his own voice breaking, “I’ve missed you too. Every night for fourteen years, I thought about laying there on the ground with the dead leaves in Angband, and leaving Arda for good. But I thought of your face, I thought of the river, of the Pools of Ivrin. I thought of seeing you again. And so I’m still here. You saved my life, Fae, too many times to count.”

Finduilas said nothing, but sobbed into Gwindor’s shoulder, clinging to him as though she would never let go. 

After a while, Gwindor said, falteringly: “Well, do you want to see me, Finduilas?”

Finduilas’s lips trembled as she replied: “Yes.”

Slowly, with dread, Gwindor turned to face her.

She was unable to stifle her gasp as she laid eyes on the full extent of the damage done, as she hadn’t been able to see a day ago. His face was as a clay mask, gray and warped; his eyes heavily hooded, sunken beneath a jutting brow. Innumerable creases underscored them like rivers on a map, like ruts beaten into barren earth. He was a pale thrall, a walking corpse. From the left corner of his mouth, a raised, crooked scar curved upward on his face, giving him the false appearance of a smile.

Gwindor’s sunken eyes read the look on her face in despair.

“I was a bit more handsome before I left, wasn’t I, Fae? I’m sorry.”

He began to move his hands over his face again. But Finduilas took them and pulled them aside.

“You’re _ sorry _ ?” she shouted, “ _ You’re  _ sorry?” 

Gwindor stared at her, stunned.

“After what they did to you?” Finduilas went on, “You’re sorry? Ulmo’s sake, what the fuck do you have to be sorry for, Gwindor? For-- for living? Answer me!”

She was still gripping his thin hands with a furious strength, digging her nails in, glaring at him through red eyes. 

Gwindor couldn’t help it-- he started to laugh. And Finduilas smiled through her tears, put her palms on his cheeks, and covered his scarred mouth with hers. Her lips were as sweet, wet, and warm as he had remembered. Her breath came ragged and fast down his throat. He pulled her into himself, ran his hands over the familiar shape of her shoulders, her back, her waist. Color rushed into his face, a face that just moments before had been gray and lifeless.

“I love you,” said Finduilas fiercely between her kisses, “I’ll always love you. Don’t you ever leave me again.”

“And I love you, Fae,” said Gwindor, his heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe, “Love you more than life.” 


	3. Salt and Honey

“Well, do you want to see me, Finduilas?”

The sun was setting on the Pools of Ivrin in autumn of the year they met. 

They were alone; his shirt was already tangled beneath them on the rocks. Yet still somehow they were still not close enough to one another.,T and though winter was almost upon them, neither felt the chill of the twilight air as it moved over them. 

A shine was on her lip, a scarlet glow in her cheek, and Gwindor blushed at the feral hunger with which Finduilas replied: “Yes.”

He watched, mystified, as she tore the leather belt free and threw it across the rocks. She dug her fingers into the cloth of his breeches and wrenched downward; her blue eyes grew round at what she saw.

“It’s… it’s so…”

“Fae?”

“It’s so perfect!”

He burst out laughing. 

“Well, thank you, Fae, I’ve always thought so myself. Nice of you to say, though.”

“Oh, I wish I had one!” exclaimed Finduilas, reaching with her fingers, and Gwindor almost jumped out from beneath her touch. “It must be glorious having a cock. I think I’d go around fucking everything I laid my eyes on.”

“ _ Not _ wise,” said Gwindor, biting back another laugh. 

“You’re so very beautiful, Gwindor. The most I’ve ever seen, I think. Like… like a statue in the fountains of Gondolin.”

She drew back from him and stood up, reaching behind her back, searching between her shoulderblades.

“You haven’t been to Gondolin, surely?” asked Gwindor, watching her curiously.

Finduilas found the clasp on the back of her dress and twisted it free.

“No, I haven’t. But if I did, I’d tell King Turgon that none of his great marble statues will ever hold a candle to your light.”

She slipped the dress over her shoulders and let it fall to her ankles. 

The column of her naked body now stood before him, all the forbidden shapes and lines he had guiltily imagined night after night as he lay awake. Not one crease or scar marred her skin, but the slight curve of her belly, the shake in her thigh reminded Gwindor that she was of flesh, not carved alabaster.

He could feel the heat rushing to his face, blood coursing past his ears. She couldn’t possibly know what she was doing to him; she would never understand how madly he wanted her now. 

Years later, Gwindor would lead Túrin, mad and mute, to Eithel Ivrin, the spring that fed these very pools, and wash the blood of their friend Beleg from his hands. As his companion wept into the crystal water, Gwindor would look south along the course of the river, and vow to bring Túrin where he knew it led. 

He would come to love Túrin in a way he couldn’t fully understand-- the way Elves often love the Men who bring them to their earthly graves, as Finrod once loved Beren, and Beleg himself once loved Túrin. That sophomoric Man would ask Gwindor that night, when they made their camp by the Pools, to whom his heart once belonged. 

Then Gwindor’s face would remain impassive but for a deepening of color around the lips, and he would reply only that the waters of Eithel Ivrin were blessed by Ulmo the Vala to cleanse the dirty and tired soul, but they could not wash away the ills of the past, nor the passing of too many lost years. And Túrin would not ask again.

But here by the Pools of Ivrin, before the tragedies, before Túrin and Angband and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Finduilas came near and lay down on the rocks, and Gwindor’s eyes followed. Fading light fell on her skin, tracing lacy silhouettes of leaves onto her breasts. A surge of molten wanting rushed to his insides, and the seething within him bloomed into open flame. 

As they moved their bare bodies over one another, skin pressing against hot skin in the cold by the lake, he decided that she was the most precious, most beloved thing his arms had ever held; and the sweetest and loveliest sight his eyes had ever seen. 

He would never have the words to tell her how exquisite she was, how she mystified him, elated him, and entranced him all at once, without ever trying. She had a way of leaving him mute, of putting the loftiest speeches to shame. So Gwindor took her hips in his hands, pulled her close, and told her with his tongue. 

Her sweet, earthy scent filled his head. Rare, intoxicating, it stirred the creature lying beneath his skin-- always aching, always hungry. He plied her flesh with his mouth; he searched; he hid his soft, longing cries in her flesh and he devoured her. 

In response, she laced her fingers through his hair and began to cry out in her turn-- a kittenish mewling; a long, sweet, pure sound that drove him to the verge of insanity, and he pulled her still more greedily to his face, drowning in the taste of salt and honey that flowed from her, as though trying to drink the ocean itself. 

At length she began to plead with him, curling her toes into his back as she tensed and coiled inside, a cat crouching to pounce, and she implored him for release, for absolution-- she screamed at him to let her go. 

So he heeded her, and finding the soft void inside her, grown rich and soaking with need for him, began to stroke and press and lap at this lovely place until her mewling grew relentless and uncontrollable. He faded to nothing in the white oblivion of her light, and that there was only her, only ever her.

Now her sighs were ringing in his ears, her body fluttering beneath his hands like a gull on the ocean wind. There he held her fast, riding the storm, adoring the sounds of her relief and the sweat on her lip, and gasping that he loved her, until the light went out.


	4. The River

> Then the heart of Finduilas was turned from Gwindor and against her will her love was given to Túrin; but Túrin did not perceive what had befallen. And being torn in heart Finduilas became sorrowful; and she grew wan and silent. 
> 
> But Gwindor sat in dark thought; and on a time he spoke to Finduilas, saying: ‘Daughter of the house of Finarfin, let no grief lie between us; for though Morgoth has laid my life in ruin, you still I love...’

He grew weaker by the day. His strength was smaller now than it had been even when Beleg had found him, curled up like a dog under the dead oak tree in the wilds surrounding Angband. It was as though that place had put a poison in him, one that crept ever deeper into his body though its source was gone, filtering steadily into his bone, into his soul. 

Here was the height of Spring, and the hill exuberantly flowering; yet Gwindor was withering, shedding strength and joy like a bent tree shedding leaves in the fall. Each morning he awoke to a world that lost yet more of its color. 

It was nighttime. Strange unrest had stirred him, and he was sleepless. Nowadays he often found it difficult to lift his head from the pillow in the morning, but it was well past midnight when he sat up at the foot of his bed, wide awake, staring down at his pale, skeletal thighs. He scarcely recognized his own body anymore. 

Shuddering at the sight, he rose, with difficulty, and dressed by the starlight peeking through the window. 

For Finduilas’s sake he had tried to eat, but he did this only to please her. All the food he put in his mouth seemed to turn into clay when it touched his lips, sickened him when he gagged it down. Most days his limbs weighed too much to lift. 

He had been buried alive although he walked aboveground. 

Whenever he glanced at a mirror, which he now avoided doing, his ribs showed a little more through the front of his collar. He would hastily fasten another button. 

Gwindor gathered the folds of his cloak around himself and bolted the door behind him. The new moon appeared as a bright sliver in the night sky. Spring wind rustled his thin hair as he made his way slowly but surely down the gorge, the rock wall into which King Finrod had carved the first halls of Nargothrond. Far below, the river Narog streamed steadily onward, shining black by the light of the stars.

His relationship with Finduilas had become more and more strained. Days began to pass where Gwindor never left his bed. At times she would visit him, with her face pinched and wan, and lay her head silently on his shoulder. Though she wouldn’t say so, Gwindor knew she had been quarreling with Orodreth again. Her father urged her daily to leave her spent lover behind, to detach herself from Gwindor’s walking corpse and find a man who remained living and whole.

It wasn’t hard to surmise the man Orodreth had in mind; or the Man, to be exact. Túrin’s achievements multiplied seemingly by the hour, even as Gwindor slid ever further into obscurity. 

Meanwhile, Túrin had risen so fast in Orodreth’s favor that some wondered whether there was some kind of enchantment about him, a gift from the Valar. He had reached the peak of his mortal adulthood, and appeared so striking when he rode through the city gates wearing his great Dragon-helm that the elves of Nargothrond had added another name to the many Túrin already bore:  _ Adanedhel _ , Elf-man.

Gwindor longed to tell Finduilas that her father the king was right, that she should leave him, and live while she still lived. But whenever he broached the topic, she silenced him with her sapphire glare, and he dared not go on.

The banks of the Narog were as they had always been, paved in their regular black masonry. The Noldorin masons had never used mortar: their craftsmanship was so fine that the stones naturally interlocked, leaving not a hair’s breadth between them. Gwindor had once loved walking along the river, admiring how each black stone had been cut just right to nestle between its neighbors. 

Sighing, he sat at the edge of the riverbank above the water’s gleaming surface. The frogs were singing over the gentle gurgle of the current. He sang softly in harmony:

_ Through thorn and thicket, gale and squall, _

_ The river ever flows to sea… _

From across the water came her voice in answer:

_ In love with you I surely fall; _

_ No storm shall sway that meant to be. _

Gwindor started and glanced up toward the singer. Finduilas approached on the opposite bank, clad in her nightgown.

“Fae? What are you doing here?”

Finduilas smiled a small smile and sat down cross-legged facing him. The river coursed wide and deep between them.   
“Couldn’t I ask you the same?” she asked. 

Gwindor shrugged.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either.”

They were quiet. It had been weeks since they had last spoken. He had turned down three of her consecutive invitations to dine with her at the castle, and had ignored the fourth entirely. Thus far, she had not tried again.

Well, now was as good a time to speak with her as any. They were alone, and she had nothing with which to distract him.

“Finduilas,” said Gwindor, “I think it’s time to discuss the matter of our betrothal.”

Finduilas regarded him from across the river. Her blue eyes were dark and unreadable. Eighteen years. He marveled that she had stayed true all this time. 

He remembered lying awake in the squalor of Angband, hoping against hope her heart would still belong to him if he ever returned to Nargothrond. But now, he found he would rather that she had moved on.

“I’ve given you my final word, Gwindor,” said Finduilas, “I’m not leaving you. A promise is a promise.”

“Things have changed,” said Gwindor miserably. “Can’t you see that? You’re alive, and you’re beautiful, and you ought to stay that way, because it’s too late for me. I can feel the sun setting on my life as we speak. I can feel myself slipping out of the world every minute. For the love of Elbereth, let me go. I won’t let you drown with me.”

“And what am I going to do without you?” Finduilas said, “How am I going to live knowing I left you behind? You said you’d never leave me again, Gwindor son of Guilin. You said you still loved me.”

Gwindor turned away.

“I do,” he said sadly, “But what about you?”

“I love you. Of course I do.”

But he shook his head.

“It was my brother that they blinded, not me,” he said, “I can see the way you look at him, and he at you. I want to see you both happy. Believe me, it’s the only thing I ever want anymore.”

It was Finduilas’s turn to look away. 

She was indeed drawn to the Man called  _ Agarwaen _ : neither elf nor man, neither young nor old, and filled with a fatefulness and energy, he burned as bright within this world as Gwindor was gray. 

“Gwindor…”

“My Finduilas,” said Gwindor, “Daughter of the House of Finarfin: let no grief lie between us. Morgoth laid my life in ruin, but I love you still. And if you love the Man, then love him. But be careful. He’s not who he says he is. His true name is Túrin, not  _ Agarwaen _ . I heard rumors, you know-- when I was a prisoner. His father Húrin is still held there, and some said Morgoth had cursed his entire family. I’m afraid to think what that means for you.”

For a long time, Finduilas sat deep in thought, but at last she said only: “Túrin son of Húrin doesn’t love me. He never will.”

“If not him, then some other,” said Gwindor desperately, “Please, for both our sakes, live your life. I want you to remember me the way I used to be, not as this pathetic wraith I’ve become. I’ve nothing left to give you. I can’t lift you onto my horse anymore, Fae, I can’t buy you presents or gold, and my title is all but worthless.”

Guilin, the father of Gwindor and Gelmir, had turned to drink and gambling when he learned the fates of his sons in the wars. He had succeeded in drinking himself to death in the tenth summer after Gwindor was taken, and his estate had been sold for a pittance to cover his debts. All that remained was the small house in the city where Gwindor now lived. 

Gwindor searched her face through the night over the river, looking for his answer. But he saw only the bright rippling reflected starlight playing across her face.  
“_All that is gold does not glitter_,” she said unexpectedly, gazing into the water.

“What is that?” asked Gwindor, curiosity tempering his despair.

“An old Sindarin saying. So my mother said.”

“Hmm! You are full of those,” he replied, with a ghost of his old smile, “How’d you get all the way over there, anyway, Fae?”

Finduilas fidgeted, embarrassed.

“The bridge was completed today,” she answered, “It’s just back there.”

Gwindor sighed. It had been Túrin’s idea to build a bridge over Narog on order to attack the dark creatures that now roamed the northeastern plains. It was a foolhardy idea, one that would expose Nargothrond’s location to Morgoth and destroy the barrier of defense that the river provided; but Túrin’s counsel had a powerful effect on the king. 

“Well, now that it’s built, we may as well use it,” he said, “Wait for me. I’ll meet you in the middle.”

The bridge was wide enough for five phalanxes to pass over it side by side, and had been tremendously expensive to construct in an already lean year. Gwindor had argued against it, but his word was worthless now against Túrin’s, and the scaffolding had risen a few months ago. Now there was no going back. 

He took her hand in the middle of the bridge, and they leaned over the railing together. Looking down into the familiar waters of the Narog was like looking over all the bitter years, into the past. Silently, Gwindor gathered Finduilas in his arms, and the two stood this way beneath the waning moon, watching the river flow ceaselessly on.


	5. Malorant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us return again to happier times, and tell the story of a horse named Malorant.

A few years before Gwindor and Finduilas were betrothed, a bitter winter swept Beleriand. All through Nargothrond, snow piled on the riverbanks, and in the North, the Pools of Ivrin themselves froze solid. By the time the weather warmed, the people were hungry and spent, and trudged through the melting snow, heavy-hearted.

After a brief council, King Orodreth decided to throw an extravagant parade to lift their spirits-- an apology as much as it was a celebration to stay the tides of malcontent. Calculations were drawn, performers sought out, and the roads cleared for the whole day from morning to dusk. One by one, chartered carts returned from the far corners of the realm, depositing crowds along the streets. They situated themselves and looked on in their furs, or in their rags if they did not have them.

The parade began at noon. A procession of horn-players, flutists and drummers marched through the city square, followed by dancers in brightly colored hose; magicians; singing children; carts full of glass flowers; acrobats; banner-bearers; a bear-tamer; and a huge wooden swan with slowly furling and unfurling wings controlled by puppeteers beneath.

Finduilas, Gwindor and Orodreth were perched at the ledge before the palace, watching the parade pass by below. Finduilas momentarily let her eyes wander from the performers and over the crowds: she had never realized until now just how many people dwelt in the Realm of Nargothrond beyond the terraces of the city-- and just how poor some of them were. She felt a nagging sense of guilt as she adjusted the snowy rabbit-pelt trim of her cloak around her neck. Somehow, it had not occurred to her before that children in the countryside went barefoot while she walked through the heated palace in silk slippers.

“What’s the matter, Fae?” asked Gwindor offhandedly. He had felt her shift beneath the arm he held around her shoulders. His dark brown hair was cropped short that year, and he looked like a sleek, handsome hound. 

“Oh, nothing,” she said hastily, “It’s cold. That’s all.”

In response, Gwindor pulled her body closer to his to warm her, and Finduilas blushed happily. Perhaps she was merely being foolish-- of course she knew that she had luxuries others had not. It was hardly her fault.

Orodreth stood aside, appearing not to notice his daughter and her lover exchanging fawning glances a few feet away. His brow wrinkled.

“Who is that?” He gestured at the procession passing below them and redirected his question toward his court herald, situated nearby: “Who is _ that _ ?”

Gwindor and Finduilas looked down too. Someone was weaving through the horn players, rending their careful formation. The crowd below started to murmur. They looked closer. The disruptor was a young girl, mangy-looking even from this distance. In her right fist, she held a rope, by which she led--

“Is that a  _ foal _ ?” Gwindor snorted with laughter. The musicians had been thrown off their step, and the music became dissonant. “Fae-- I think they’re coming our way!”

Indeed, it appeared that the odd pair had pushed through the parade and now continued through the crowd, toward the ledge where the king’s family stood.

“Should I stop them, my lord?” asked the herald uncertainly, but two armed guards were already descending the palace steps to apprehend the young interloper. 

“Be careful! That’s a child!” Finduilas blurted out over the blare of the now totally asynchronous horn melodies, “Wait! Let her talk to us. Papa--”

Each guard had taken one small arm and started to drag the girl away, but she held fast to the foal’s rope halter.

“Halt the procession!” called Orodreth, and the horn-players and gathered citizens all fell silent at once. Silently, the guards reversed their direction and brought the child before the princess. 

Up close, Finduilas realized that the girl was not as young as she had first thought-- she looked as though she might be nine or ten, but so underfed that she looked half her age or younger.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” the herald asked angrily, “Can’t you see you’ve ruined King Orodreth’s parade? Where are your mother and father?”

“I’m here to see Lady Finduilas,” replied the girl, meeting his stern gaze with stubborn defiance, “I have a horse for sale.”

At this, they all looked over at the pitiful specimen standing behind her: a sickly yellow runt of a foal, uglier and weaker than a newborn goat. The herald looked furious and Orodreth confused. Gwindor could barely contain his laughter. Finduilas was momentarily speechless. 

Just then, a man and woman, dressed much like the girl came running out of the crowd, waving their hands apologetically.

“Forgive her, Lady,” they cried, “She’s our daughter. Stubborn and fanciful-- we will discipline her for the mess she’s caused.”

“As well you should!” said the herald, inflating in indignance.

“There’s no need for that,” said Orodreth kindly, “Let’s continue the parade. I suggest you good people join in the festivities, and we shan’t discuss it more.”

“By Ilúvatar, your daughter and her pet have been the most lively thing I’ve seen all day!” said Gwindor with a twinkle of his crystal-blue eyes.

“How much for the horse?” asked Finduilas.

They all turned and stared at her, but Finduilas paid none of them any mind but the little girl, to whom she repeated her question: “You said you had a horse for sale. How much is he?”

“The cost of our carrot harvest,” said the girl promptly, and when her father opened his mouth to admonish her, she stubbornly pressed on, “Allow me to explain, Lady Finduilas. We’re carrot farmers, Lady, of the Northwestern quarter. In the middle of the growing season, a wild stallion tore through our field and ate all of our carrots. In the morning he was gone, leaving only his great hoofprints and the ravaged field behind. We lost the entire crop, lady, and in the dead of winter, our mare foaled. We’ve no food for ourselves, let alone for him.”

She paused to gesture earnestly toward the pathetic little animal at the other end of her rope.

“Leave him, Fae,” whispered Gwindor, “Look at him-- born too early, it sounds like; he’ll be dead inside a month. And even if he lives, he’ll be a weakling. For all we know some donkey stole the carrots and seeded the mare. The best you can hope for is a little mule come Spring.”

“Yes, Gwindor’s right, my treasure,” said Orodreth, “If it’s a colt you want, I’ll take you to the yearling races, and I’ll buy you the winner at once. The very finest in Nargothrond.”

In response, Finduilas again addressed the girl.

“What’s going to happen to him if he isn’t bought today?”

The girl looked the princess in the eye. “Then we’ll eat him, my lady.”

Finduilas tossed her golden head. She had made up her mind.

“I don’t want the winner of the yearling races, Papa, or any other colt. I want this one. And I want you to pay double what they asked for him.”

“Finduilas, my darling…”

“Please, Papa. It isn’t too much, for us, is it?”

“No, no, darling, it’s not the money, it’s just… this horse is… pardon me, is worthless.”

“I want him. Papa, a mare at the royal stable lost a foal last week, didn’t she? She can nurse him. And if it’s too much trouble for the grooms, then I’ll rear him myself. You said yourself he’d be dead inside a month, didn’t you, Gwindor? If he dies, then that will be that.”

Orodreth sighed. A line appeared between his golden eyebrows as he thought it over. Then he straightened up and gestured toward the herald.

“Very well. It’s done. We shall pay twice the cost of the lost carrots for… for…”

“Malorant,” said the girl, “His name is Malorant.”

The herald rolled his eyes. It was too grand a name for such a pitiful creature.

“For Malorant,” agreed the king, “My friends, if you’ll follow my herald here, he’ll arrange the payment in gold and coin…”

That was the last they ever saw of the girl from the Northwestern quarter and her parents. But something must be said of the Northwestern quarter of Nargothrond: it was the very poorest of the districts of the realm, and the worst affected by the breaking of the Siege of Angband, after which Orcs and Goblins ransacked homes, trampled fields and stole sheep every day. To the people of this region, it seemed the king and his lords cared little what happened to the people who lived so far from the city. 

Yet after Finduilas’s purchase of the little yellow foal, word spread far and wide in the outskirts of Nargothrond. It was said that the princess cared, that the princess was listening. Though they did not realize it, their hearts were turned toward her and her father, and they would march more fervently come the Bragollach under Orodreth’s command to defend their own homes.

If Finduilas thought anything of this, it did not show. It seemed to all, even as Gwindor laughed that she had been soundly swindled, that the princess had fallen completely in love with the little yellow foal. True to her word, she hastened to the stable every morning to feed Malorant extra oats, rearing him patiently out of an old tome she found in Lord Finrod’s library. They marveled at her behavior-- though no one thought Finduilas spiteful or mean, she had never before appeared to care so deeply for anyone besides herself, let alone a poor, ugly thing like Malorant.

Malorant did not die. In fact, under Finduilas’s care, he first recovered, and then thrived. As the last heaps of snow faded in the weak sunlight of early Spring, he was kicking his heels in the pasture with the other colts; by summer he had outstripped all of them in stature and beauty. That mangy yellow pelt deepened into pure, gold-tinted chestnut, and his short little neck, by which he might have been taken for donkey-stock, lengthened into an elegant arch. He cantered around and around and around the royal pasture, a ray of sunlight given earthly form. Though he hadn’t quite outgrown the gawkish gait of his foal-hood, he already carried himself as if he were the lord of all horses. Even the royal stable-master had to remark that Malorant was a beauty, if nothing else.

By the time Malorant was a year old, his strength had grown to match his spirit, and he became difficult to handle. And though Malorant loved Finduilas with all of his wild heart, even she found him harder to control now. The stablemaster then bowed between the king and delicately suggested gelding him. 

Finduilas couldn’t stand the thought of cutting Malorant, fearing he would lose the reckless spirit she adored. Therefore when the stablemaster explained that only stallions of the finest stock were fit to breed for the royal stables, she asked him whether Malorant could be allowed to remain whole if he proved himself at the yearling races.

The stable-master allowed this. Orodreth and Gwindor grew very smug in the weeks leading up to the races. They didn’t mean to be nasty-- they just thought they might share a laugh or two when it was proven once and for all to Finduilas that Malorant, far from being the finest yearling in Nargothrond, was just an ordinary horse, sired by a feral nag and dammed by an old plow horse on a carrot farm. 

That summer, the people of Nargothrond came from far and wide to witness the yearling races. The turnout from the Northwestern quarter was stronger than it had ever been. In notable attendance also were the Eastern horse-lords: all of the great steeds of Beleriand were descended from their lines, and they came every year, smiling slyly amongst themselves as they watched their own colts outpacing the royal purebreds by multiple lengths.

The crowd watched with bated breath as the colts walked one by one to take their places at the starting gate. Malorant was having an ill time of it. He chafed and gnawed at his bit, stomped, and pranced restlessly despite his rider’s cajoling. 

Three times he broke early out of the gate, and by the third time the crowd was groaning in disapproval and calling for his removal. Then Finduilas picked up her skirts and came running down the royal platform, across the carefully plowed track, and to her Malorant’s side. There they saw him quiet at once, lower his head and listen to her whisper in his golden ears. When Finduilas finally finished with him, he stood as still as a gleaming gold statue behind the gate.

At last, the drumbeats rang across the track, and the yearlings broke out running in a volley of noise and dust. When the dust cleared, they all looked for Malorant-- and rubbed their eyes in disbelief to see him streaking like a sunbeam at the end of the track, so far away from the others they may as well have been standing still. And Gwindor saw his own blue-blooded black yearling, the same one that would be shot dead from underneath him when he charged the steps of Angband, left farther and farther in the dust by each of Malorant’s mighty golden strides.

An enormous cheer erupted from the section of the audience comprised of visitors from the Northwestern quarter as Malorant handily won the race. The Eastern horse-lords muttered amongst themselves. They did not smile as they watched Malorant trot proudly into the winner’s circle, flouncing his golden mane as he was blanketed in silk and showered with yellow roses, while the crowd cheered on. 

Later that afternoon, the Eastern horse-lords requested a private audience with Orodreth. Malorant must have been sired by one of theirs, they claimed. By his color, bearing, and build they insisted he could be none other than the son of their own very best stallion, who had been lost in a skirmish and flew westward over the rivers around the time Malorant’s mother came in foal. They asked to buy Malorant back, offering as payment ten of their own best yearlings.

Orodreth smiled and politely answered, “Good horse-lords of the East: the finest steeds in Beleriand come from the noble lines of your keeping. Yet I’m afraid I will not agree to your price. Nargothrond has fine horses to spare, but only one Malorant. His sire-price alone is worth his weight in gold.”

But the horse-lord was not so easily satisfied. If it was gold the king wanted, it was gold he would have-- just how much gold was written deliberately on a slip of paper and disclosed to the king by the herald. Orodreth sat in thought for a very long time as Finduilas watched from behind his shoulder, holding her breath.

Finally, the king made his reply: “This offer is generous. I cannot refuse.”

The horse-lord’s hardened face began to stretch into a sly, satisfied smile. But Orodreth held up his hand, indicating that he wasn’t finished speaking. 

“However, it isn’t my choice to make. You see, Malorant belongs to Finduilas, who saved his life and raised him with her own hands. He answers to her alone, and only she can give you your answer.”

And Finduilas triumphantly proclaimed: “My lords, I will not sell Malorant for all the gold in the kingdom.”

To this, the horse-lords finally bowed and retreated. But their expressions were softened, knowing the right choice had been made. They knew in their hearts that Malorant would never belong to anyone but Finduilas. 

Humbled now, Gwindor came to Finduilas and asked how she could possibly have known that the starving runt from the Northwestern quarter would grow to be such a treasure. Her answer surprised him, and in the years to come he would mull it over time and time again. Here is what she said:

“The truth is, I didn’t know any better than you, Gwindor. I didn’t know Malorant would grow to be the treasure that he is. But that day, at that parade, the cost of saving his life was the lost earnings of a poor family. A little foal saved, a family fed, and esteem for the House of Finarfin risen in the eyes of the Northwestern quarter, -- that’s a bargain for the price we paid, Gwindor, any way you look at it. As for him living, well, I saw that as soon as I looked at his eyes: he would live, no matter what. That’s the thing with men. With your pride, with your shrewdness, you wouldn’t recognize gold if it was staring you in the face. In this case, from out of the head of a starving runt.”

Gwindor laughed, and looked upon her with adoring eyes.

“You know, Fae,” he said, “Sometimes I think you’ve gone mad. And other times, I think all the world’s gone mad, and you’re the only one who makes any sense at all. This is one of those times!”


	6. Atrophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart between the lovers.

> ...he fell into dishonour and none heeded him, for his strength was small and he was no longer forward in arms.
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

A few more months had gone by since Finduilas and Gwindor had met on the newly built bridge. In spite of her wheedling, Gwindor had continued to refuse her invitations to dine at the castle. In the end, Túrin had been the one to convince him to show his face at Orodreth’s dinner table for the first time since his return. 

Gwindor had finally been brought around by the notion that if he agreed to lend his presence tonight, they would all leave him be for a while, and hopefully for good. 

If he was here for any other reason, it was for Túrin’s sake, and not Finduilas’s. He had grown increasingly irritated with Finduilas’s visits to his house bearing food and flowers. Each time she walked through his door, she would throw open all the windows and urge him to step into the sun. She would exhaust his already meager energy with her falsely cheery chatter about the world beyond his walls. Often, she dropped hints that his illness could be cured with a touch of fresh air, or that he might rediscover some of his old strength if only he picked up his dusty longbow again.

Finduilas seemed to go conveniently deaf when he tried to explain that he  _ could  _ not do the things he asked; that there would be no miraculous recovery for him. He wished with all his heart that she would open up those bright blue eyes just enough to see the truth: that there was nothing she could do to save him, not with love nor optimism nor faith, and really, that they would both be better off if she stopped trying.

Gwindor fiddled joylessly with his napkin as people filtered in, willing time to pass by faster. He was not at all oblivious to the uneasy glances the other guests sent his way when they thought he wasn’t looking. He had grown accustomed to the reality of his own ugliness. In truth he was too far gone to care. 

“Gwindor. It’s good to see you, my friend.”

He lifted his head just enough to see that Túrin had sat down on his right. The other guests peered uncertainly at him, clearly thinking this decision unwise. 

“Well met,  _ ‘Agarwaen’ _ ,” replied Gwindor, “You look well.” 

Túrin looked well indeed, vigorous and tanned from the summer sun, dressed handsomely this evening in white. He grinned at Gwindor and helped himself to a huge piece of bread, slathering both sides generously in butter.

Finduilas and Víressë arrived together shortly after. Finduilas took one look at Gwindor and went pale.

“ _ Elentári _ ,” she hissed in Víressë’s ear, “He looks terrible.”

Víressë assumed a dark expression of agreement at Finduilas’s words. Gwindor seemed to decay before their eyes. The curved scar at the corner of his mouth looked somehow worse than before; if it were possible, she could have sworn it was healing in reverse. They sat down across the table, Finduilas never taking her eyes off of Gwindor’s face. 

“He never eats,” she said exasperatedly, “No wonder he isn’t getting better. I think this night will do him good, Víressë. When my father sees the state he’s in, he’ll help him, I know it.”

Her friend gave no reply. Contrary to what Finduilas thought, Víressë doubted the night would end well for either Finduilas or Gwindor. The stares from the other guests were growing increasingly frequent and uncomfortable, and it seemed Orodreth had noticed. The king frowned from the other end of the table and whispered in the ear of one of the servants, who nodded curtly and flitted away.

They were halfway through the soup when the servant came to their side of the table and bowed.

“Lord Gwindor,” said the servant quietly, in a clear attempt at discretion, “The king wonders if perhaps you are feeling ill, and would like to be escorted home early.”

Finduilas overheard, and looked up.

“He’s not going anywhere,” she snapped at once, glaring across the table at her father, “Kindly leave us.”

The servant remained where he was, his face impassive.

“The king would be happy to provide Lord Gwindor with transport home,” the servant went on, “And for him to choose another day to call.”

Túrin had now taken notice of the conversation, and his gray eyes darted quickly between the king, Finduilas, and Gwindor. He then exchanged a look with Víressë.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, “Is everything all right, Gwindor?”

Gwindor opened his mouth, but Finduilas interrupted him.

“It’s  _ not _ all right,” she said, her eyes flashing, “Because this fool insists on making a nuisance of himself, rather than let us dine in peace.”

Still the servant would not go.

“I’ve been asked to show you out, Lord Gwindor,” he said firmly at last, “At the king’s request.”

The guests had gone quiet. They glanced at each other uncertainly. A few of them rose from their chairs and discreetly left. The main course had arrived and sat forgotten in front of them, steaming conspicuously. 

Gwindor’s old wrath and pride chose that moment to rise up within him, as he realized the king was dismissing him to avoid further embarrassment on his behalf. 

“At the king’s request, you say?” he said, dropping his napkin on the table, and looking over pointedly toward Orodreth.

The king’s eyes narrowed as he chewed testily on his lip. This was clearly not how he had hoped Gwindor would respond to the servant’s message. Even Finduilas had gone silent, disliking the animosity that hung thick in the air between these two men. The servant shrank back into the shadows, unnoticed by all. 

Gwindor slid his chair back from his untouched dinner and stood. He looked as unsteady as a newborn foal. Túrin’s brow furrowed in concern.

“I will not stay where I am unwelcome, Orodreth,” said Gwindor, addressing the king directly, “And if it is your wish that I leave, then I shall. Although I wish you hadn’t sent the boy, but rather had told me like a man.”

Even as Orodreth’s face clouded in fury, Gwindor took one step away from the table before his legs buckled beneath him, and he immediately crumpled toward the floor. Túrin barely had time to catch him as he fell.

“Gwindor!”

Finduilas flew from her seat and ran toward him, but Gwindor had recovered enough to lift his head, and he snapped at her: “ _ Don’t  _ come any closer, Fae.”

The other guests were leaving rapidly, muttering amongst themselves. None of them wanted to be present for the spectacle that would follow. 

“You heard him, Finduilas,” said Orodreth coldly, “He doesn’t want your help. Get away from him.”

“Be quiet, Papa,” said Finduilas, tears starting in her eyes, “Haven’t you done enough already? Get up, Gwindor. You’re going to be fine.”

Gwindor said nothing, but stared up at her, leaning heavily into Túrin’s arms. 

“I said, get up!” she shouted, “You have two good legs, don’t you? Stand up, for my sake. Stand up, if you still love me!”

“He can’t, Finduilas,” said Víressë, trying to restrain her, “Stop this.”

But Finduilas pushed her hands away and knelt down before Gwindor.

“You said it was I that saved you!” she screamed, “You said it was for my memory that you remained alive in Angband. Well, live for me, then! If you’re still alive, then live for me! Stand up, walk out that door, and live!”

There was a moment of tense silence. 

Then, still looking straight at her, Gwindor replied with two words filled with venom:  _ “Fuck you.” _

In a fit of anger, Finduilas swept Gwindor’s wineglass off the table and threw its contents in his face. She stormed off, her sobs still audible in the next room. Orodreth rose and followed her, leaving Víressë, Túrin and Gwindor at the empty table still laden with piles of uneaten food. Red wine dripped down Gwindor’s face and onto his shirt, but he made no move to wipe it away.

“Take Gwindor home,” said Víressë to Túrin, “I’ll handle Finduilas.”

Túrin gave a brisk nod. He gathered Gwindor’s thin frame in his arms, lifted him easily, and carried him away from Finduilas and her father. 

Víressë, alone, sat down in one of the vacated seats and put a fig in her mouth. She chewed slowly, listening to Finduilas and Orodreth shouting at each other through the wall.

“You’re not to see him anymore, do you understand me, Finduilas? You will break off the engagement at once, or else I will!”

“I’ll see who I like, Papa, unless you throw me into one of your dungeons and tie me down. You may have given up on him, but I won’t, not so easily!”

“That ring on your finger has sunk teeth into you,” came Orodreth’s snarling voice in reply, “You’re blind, daughter, too blind to see you’re living in the past. The man you loved is dead, and you’ve chained yourself to his exhumed corpse. Will you waste away lamenting by his bedside? Will you throw away your future to sing his elegies? You’re too naïve to realize what a mistake you’re making, but I’m your father, Finduilas, and I know what’s best for you. There are other men out there, good men who will love you and care for you. You can be happy again. Forget him, Finduilas, and I promise you’ll not regret it. But stay with him and you most certainly shall.”

“He was captured serving you,” said Finduilas through ragged sobs, “And this is how you repay him? Help him, Papa, even if you won’t let me see him. Let me find him another healer, let me send him a nurse or two. Couldn’t you do that for me?”

“_‘Serving me’?_" Orodreth repeated scornfully, “He deliberately flouted me when he joined the Union of Maedhros; his idiocy got all his men killed. I have no love for him, and after the way he disgraced us tonight, he will receive nothing from me. Better to let him rot in peace. I sincerely hope it isn’t long before he does.”  
“I’m going to help him if you won’t, Papa,” said Finduilas, “If you don't take care of him, then I will.”

Their footsteps were coming closer again. Soon after, Finduilas and her father appeared in the doorway to the dining room that was empty except for Víressë. Neither seemed to notice that she was still there.

“You?” laughed Orodreth, “And how will you do that? You’ve no money or power to your name. In fact, I’ve given you everything of value that you really own: your pedigree and your pretty face; everything else, I can easily take away. The only gold you have is your golden hair, my daughter, and by Ilúvatar, I gave you that too. If you love him, then cut it off and sell it for him, and then you truly will have nothing.”

Víressë stood, walked to Finduilas’s side, and laid a hand on her shoulder, saying nothing. Orodreth ceased his tirade then. Even the king was a little scared of Víressë. 

“I’m sorry,” said Orodreth, in a gentler tone, “I went too far, and I’m sorry for it. I love you, Finduilas; that will never change. But my decision is final. I can’t stop you from seeing him, it’s true. But if you do, it will be against my will. You’ll thank me for this someday, I promise you.”

The king touched his daughter’s shoulder, and then he walked away.

Finduilas sighed, and allowed Víressë to embrace her.

“What happened to us?” she said sadly, “Papa and I never used to fight at all. Have I gone mad?”

“I remember,” said Víressë simply, stroking Finduilas’s hair. “You’re not mad, my dear. It’s the world that’s gone mad, the world that makes no sense at all.” 

“But he’s right,” said Finduilas, “There’s nothing I can do. About any of it. It’s as he said.  _ ‘The only gold I have is my golden hair’ _ .”

Víressë thought for a bit, and then replied: “ _ All that is gold does not glitter. _ ”

Finduilas looked at her, frowning. It wasn’t often you heard Víressë say utter more than a few words at a time. She didn’t speak unless she had something worth her while to say.

“What do you mean by that?”

Víressë only shrugged, and fell silent once more.

But that night, Finduilas paced in her bedroom, the words that had been exchanged earlier that evening running through her head over and over again. By the time everyone else fell asleep, she had made up her mind. 


	7. The Tower of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us remember now the days of Fae's life in the long years that Gwindor was gone.

> Grieving Beleg looked upon him; for Gwindor was now but a bent and fearful shadow of his former shape and mood, when in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad that lord of Nargothrond rode with rash courage to the very doors of Angband, and there was taken. 
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

The candlewick disappeared into an orange tongue of flame, and a little light swelled around it as it caught. Finduilas withdrew the lit candle from the fire and cupped her hand over it, guarding the tiny flame. In the half-light, she started up the stairs.

All along the stairway, five hundred little flames identical to her own flickered somberly through the darkness of the tower, atop candles of every possible size, shape, and color. There were others here with her, other visitors, some above and some below on the steep, spiraling stairs. But they did not speak to one another, and kept their heads bowed. Their soft footsteps echoed on the circular walls. 

She had reached the top of the spiraling flight. There was a Sindarin inscription carved in the topmost stair, illuminated briefly by Finduilas’s candle:

MINAS NIRNAETH

_ This Tower was Erected in Honor _

_ Of Elves of Nargothrond Dead or Lost _

_ In Battles of Beleriand in the Years of Sun _

_ No song nor tale may contain our grief. _

_ Dead or lost.  _ Finduilas walked over to the narrow window at the top of the tower and set her candle down on the sill, where it illuminated her reflection in the glass. Bright blue eyes looked out over the smooth, even terraces of the city.

Fifteen years.

The candles burned, each a tiny monument to wasted life, to regret, to questions that would remain forever unanswered. Not a single man from Gwindor’s company had returned from Angband. King Fingon had been unable to reach them at all, and hitherto their fates were unknown. They said that Morgoth seldom killed the lords of the Noldor, but rather enslaved them for their skill in mining, as he had poor Gelmir. 

_ Lost. _ Every day for the first year after he was lost, Finduilas had climbed the tallest spire in the castle to look northeast toward the head of Amon Rudh. But she never saw a traveler on the still and empty horizon, and no one ever came back to Nargothrond from the direction of the Plains of Angfauilith, nor were tidings ever sent of those who were taken.

The liquid wax pooled at the base of the wick, and the flame reared and danced. Was it really only the fifteenth candle she had brought to this window? It seemed like an eternity since he had been gone.

All they had ever found of Gwindor was his pale blue banner, the same one he had cast on the ground in fury at Barad Eithel before he charged the Plains. This was returned to her, dirty and torn, but Finduilas had never washed it. She had placed it atop her pillow, and rested her cheek against it those nights she lay awake, turning and turning in the middle of the impossible void he left behind. 

A delicate shuffle, soft footsteps approaching through the dusk below. Someone else was coming up the stairs. Finduilas shifted aside to make room for the other visitor and waited for her to pass. Instead, the footsteps stopped, and a woman’s voice asked, “Is that you, Finduilas?”

Finduilas started. She knew that voice. Only one person would be brazen enough to address the princess in the middle of her mourning. 

Sure enough, Víressë’s face appeared through the darkness, her brown skin aglow in the light of her own candle.

“Well met, Víressë,” said Finduilas. She felt oddly embarrassed, intruded upon.

The two women regarded each other.

“Did you-- I mean, have you come to…”

“Yes,” said Víressë with her usual bluntness, “My brother. In the  _ Bragollach _ .”

_ Dagor Bragollach _ . “Sudden Flame”. The devastating battle in which Morgoth had broken the Siege of Angband; a battle that would have no rival in its devastation until the  _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ a few short years later.

Finduilas bowed her head, and offered in reply one of her mother’s old Sindarin sayings. “May he awaken in a fairer world than ours.”

Víressë shoved her candle roughly into an alcove on the wall, glaring.

“He almost made it out alive, too,” said Víressë, “But on the last day, he rode into the fire after his captain. Neither of them ever came back. That stupid boy.”

Finduilas was alarmed to see tears in her dark brown eyes. As far as she knew, no one had ever seen Víressë cry.

“I’m so sorry,” she said anxiously, “What… what was your brother like?”

Víressë stared at her, and for a moment, Finduilas wondered if her words had intruded, had offended. But Víressë shrugged and sat down at the top of the stairs, and tilted her head toward the space next to her, indicating Finduilas should sit down beside her. Finduilas gathered her skirt around her and took the seat proffered her.

“He was nothing like me,” said Víressë in answer to her question, “He was always smiling. I used to tell him he smiled too much. He used to dream up these elaborate pranks. Once he managed to replace my mother’s furs with a live animal for each garment. You should have seen her face when she opened her closet, and out ran a whole mess of minks, raccoons, and rabbits! He would always rope me into these little schemes somehow. It used to be us against the world: our parents, our schoolmasters, everyone. Our father tried to talk some sense into him as he grew up, told him to take on a man’s responsibilities.”

She paused to roll her dark brown eyes.

“But he could never keep himself out of trouble. And he could never leave a companion behind. Look where it got him.”

Finduilas had never heard Víressë talk so openly before. At the time, they knew very little about one another, and had not exchanged more than a handful of words. 

“I wish I could have met him,” said Finduilas, “I think I would have liked him.”

“You would have,” said Víressë with a sad little smirk, “Everyone did.”

They sat in silence, watching the candles shrink as they burned. 

Then Víressë looked pointedly at Finduilas and said: “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, what about Gwindor?”

Finduilas smiled in spite of herself. Víressë cared nothing for manners or propriety. Yet heretofore Finduilas had confided in no one about Gwindor, but felt oddly comfortable speaking of him to Víressë. She, too, had lost someone after all. 

Finduilas sighed, gathering in her mind the right words to say about the man who was no longer there, struggling to comprehend how even to begin. Víressë did not harry her, but waited wordlessly, hands folded against the dark fabric of her gown.

“He loved me, Víressë,” said Finduilas at last, “He loved me more than any girl has ever been loved. He didn’t say it often, except when it counted, but I always saw it in his eyes.”

Víressë said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

“There was a thunderstorm once,” Finduilas went on, “A torrential rain. The river Narog flooded its banks; you probably remember. The horses were terrified. They broke out of their stables and tried to leap over the pasture gates. They all failed, and many of them broke their legs. All but my Malorant. He cleared the gates, though his back hooves struck the rail with a mighty ringing, and he galloped down the gorge, leaping down the terraces, driven mad with terror. When the thunder roared, he lost his footing and tumbled into the teeming river. 

Before anyone could stop him, Gwindor threw his coat to the ground and ran outside into the drenching rain, headed straight for the river. No one dared follow. The trees were falling, and high winds screeching all around. We feared he would be gravely hurt or worse-- I was a weeping wreck; my father had to hold me down. But in the middle of the night, after the storm died down, a familiar bugling neigh rang through the gorge. Malorant trotted up the littered bank and Gwindor rode on his back, his fingers carelessly tangled in the horse’s wet mane, shivering but smiling. Both of them were thoroughly waterlogged.

My father was furious. He said, ‘If you’re to marry my daughter, Gwindor, you can’t endanger yourself this way, not even for a treasure like Malorant. Fine horses can be replaced, but men’s lives cannot.’ But Gwindor only laughed and replied, ‘I didn’t save Malorant because he was valuable, I saved him because Finduilas loves him. And I would do it again.’

Well, Gwindor’s voice was hoarse for a week after that, and he had a deep gash on his arm that they had to sew up with thread. But thereafter, he and Malorant were great friends. He said it was nothing. He said he could swim the length of the sea if he knew I was waiting for him on the other side. And I believed him. Even if he was taken to the end of the earth, he’d always return to me.”

As the story ended, Finduilas’s thoughts returned gradually to the present. The stark, gray walls of reality materialized around her and she was back in Minas Nirnaeth, where Gwindor’s name was but an inscription in stone.

“I thought surely he would return, no matter what, as he promised. But Gwindor went blind when he saw what they did to Gelmir, Víressë, he lost all of his sense and bearing, and just like he threw himself into the river after Malorant, in his rashness and fury he rode to Morgoth’s door and threw his life away.”

She had resolutely held back her tears, but they came streaming out now.

“Fifteen years. I don’t think he’s ever coming back.”

Víressë said nothing. She threw her arms around Finduilas. They cried, the first of many nights they would do so in the years to come. Other mourners came and left. The two of them held one another on the topmost stair, lost to the world. Each wept like a little girl for what was gone from her forever, and what the other, too, had lost.

The candles had burned down to stumps now now, and their light was growing dim. Finduilas wiped her nose one last time. Her face stung, but her eyes were dry. She had run out of tears at last. 

“I’m starving,” she said, “Let’s go home.”

Víressë smiled wryly and replied: “What about a drink first?”

She rose, and held out her hand, and Finduilas took it, pulling herself up. They climbed back down the staircase and out of the narrow door. It was still light outside, and Finduilas felt a weight lifted from her shoulders as the sunlight touched her face, and she and Víressë walked on, leaving their old, painful memories in the tower. 

Malorant was waiting for them outside. He tossed his head as they came near. 

“Get on,” said Finduilas, climbing nimbly onto the golden horse’s back, “He’ll carry us both.”

So Víressë climbed into the saddle after Finduilas, holding her waist from behind. Malorant waited patiently until they were well seated, nickered, and moved his golden legs in his high-stepping walk, turned back homeward. His hooves beat out a rhythmic, sure rhythm over the stone terraces, precluding the need for idle conversation. 

So along the way, they were quiet, until Víressë asked: “Have there been others, Finduilas? Anyone at all?”

Finduilas pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“A few,” she said, “I tried, for my father’s sake, but my heart wasn’t in it. Every time I thought I had fallen in love again, I realized I only wished I had. It never felt right when I put my lips on theirs. They were good men, Víressë, but only served to remind me there was only one who ever really had me. There was just nothing I could do to  _ feel _ , the way Gwindor made me feel.”

At the sound of Gwindor’s name, Malorant’s ears pricked up. He whinnied softly, and lowered his head and tail in grief. Finduilas leaned forward in the saddle and wrapped her arms around his warm neck, burying her face in his mane.

“Don’t cry,” she said to Malorant, “Though I miss him too. We still have each other, my pretty darling. And I’ll never let you go, do you hear me? Never.”

And Malorant snorted sadly in reply as he walked on.

Later that evening, after they had stabled Malorant, they brought a bottle of wine up to Finduilas’s bedroom. Víressë poured out two glasses. Finduilas took one by the stem and swirled it around, staring into its rich, crimson depths.

“You know, Víressë, I’ve always wondered why--” she hesitated. “Why you’ve been so kind to me. I know what the others say when they think I’m not listening. And yet, though we haven’t been friends before now, I know you defended me every time.”

She expected Víressë to deny having made such an exception for her. Instead, Víressë nodded briskly in confession.

“Yes. I defended you. I always knew they were wrong about you. You see, I wasn’t born in Nargothrond, Finduilas. My brother and I grew up far away from here. We grew up in the Northwestern sector.”

Víressë’s eyes glimmered darkly as she waited for Finduilas to realize the significance of these words. When Finduilas raised her brows in sudden understanding, she went on. “Yes, that’s right. We lived near the carrot farm where Malorant was born. We all heard the story of how you saved the little yellow runt who turned out to be true gold. We celebrated when the tidings came of how he routed the blue-bloods in the yearling races. And when Siege broke, my brother proudly took up the banner of Finarfin and marched with your father in the  _ Bragollach _ . Well, you know the rest.” 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Due to the  _ ‘particularly noble’ _ way in which he died, our parents were handsomely compensated, and I was invited to live for as long as I liked in the city, in your father’s castle. That’s how I came to Nargothrond.”

Finduilas studied Víressë’s lips as she spoke, dark and full against the brown of her face. She had never thought to ask how Víressë had come to Nargothrond. She had never even given it the slightest thought-- it seemed like Víressë had simply appeared one day as the natural leader of the kept, lily-skinned women of the court, had always belonged there with her biting wit and her painted, ruthless dark eyes. How very little she had known of the truth. How very little she knew about anyone. 

Finduilas raised her glass.

“To your brother.”

“And to Gwindor,” said Víressë. 

They drank.


	8. Nothing Gold can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it too late for Gwindor and Finduilas?

> All that is gold does not glitter,
> 
> Not all those who wander are lost;
> 
> The old that is strong does not wither,
> 
> Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Somehow it was Spring again: the third since Gwindor’s return to Nargothrond. The old apple tree unfurled its first sticky, yellow leaves over the garden though shrinking lumps of snow still covered the flowerbed. Gwindor had perched himself on a tree stump by the little fountain, watching finches jostle in the water.

A fair-haired, slightly built elf approached on the narrow garden path. He had a clear, gentle face.

“Good morning, Gwindor,” said the fair elf. 

“And you, Tiromer.”

Tiromer smiled and sat on a stone across from Gwindor. He held up a small cup full of steaming brownish liquid. 

“The nurses told me you were missing when they tried to give you your medicine earlier. So I thought I’d bring it to you.”

“Ah, thank you. And forgive me. I saw that the sun was out, and I wanted to come sit outside for a while. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Tiromer, “Although if you don’t mind, I’d like you to take this dose now. It’s fairly expensive, and won’t work if drunk more than an hour after its extraction.”

Gwindor took the small cup from Tiromer and raised it like a spirit.

“To Spring.”

He quickly tipped the contents into his mouth. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he handed the cup back to Tiromer.  
“Well done,” said Tiromer, laughing, “Actually, I’m very happy to find you here. Do you know it’s the first time you’ve come outside since you’ve been under my care?”

Gwindor shrugged.

“I had to learn how to walk again first, didn’t I? And I did, thanks to you. Look, I made it all the way out to this stump before I got out of breath.”

“I’m proud of you, Gwindor,” said Tiromer, “It may not seem like it now, but you’ve come a long way since you first came to me. And you’re getting better still.”

“Yesterday went poorly,” said Tiromer, “I felt no better than I did a year ago. I was livid with myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Tiromer, “But it was just that: one poor day. You must learn to accept them. You have many years ahead of you, and there will be more days that go poorly.”

Tiromer was right, Gwindor realized, as he looked out reflectively into the trees. 

When he had been brought here for Tiromer’s expertise more than a year ago, he had been barely alive; thin and wasted like a withered tree. He had been melancholy and silent, thinking himself beyond help. But had choked down the medicines, and performed the prescribed exercises, though he believed them to be futile.

This he had done for Finduilas. They had not spoken since the debacle at Orodreth’s dinner party. After that particular night, he doubted he’d be permitted to speak with her again. But he saw her face over and over again in his mind’s eye as he lay in bed, alone in Tiromer’s little dwelling in the woods; he heard her hysterical pleas from that day:  _ “Stand up, if you still love me! If you’re still alive, then live for me!” _

It had been weeks before he allowed himself to believe the truth: that the medicine was working; the exercises strengthening him; that under Tiromer’s watchful care, the poison of Angband was slowly leaving his mind and body. 

Thereafter, he had poured everything he had into getting well: he had obeyed Tiromer’s instructions religiously. He had eaten fruit, bread, butter and meat. What he had believed impossible had come to pass, and a remarkable change occurred: every day he felt the world growing brighter around him, not fading away.

He turned back to Tiromer.

“When I first returned from Angband,” he said thoughtfully, “I didn’t think I’d live to see another spring. But three springs later, I’m still here. It’s strange. I’m wondering now what I’ll do a year from now--  _ five _ years from now. I’m thinking about how I should spend the rest of my life. It’s an odd feeling, to no longer be dying. I want to ride a horse again. I want to hold a sword. I want to go home. I want to see--”

He stopped abruptly. It was foolish to presume Finduilas would ever want to see him again. Gwindor had made a mental promise long ago not to interfere with matters between her and Túrin, and he intended to keep it. But he longed for her, much more than he cared to admit, and he wished they had not left things the way they had.

If Tiromer could guess what Gwindor was thinking, he did not show it.

“One day at a time,” he said sagely. Then, tilting his head and squinting at the barren flower bed, he said, “Now’s a good a day as any to plant this year’s tulips, don’t you think, Gwindor?”

“Yes!” agreed Gwindor, “And isn’t now a good a time as any?”

Tiromer beamed at him, and ran off to gather supplies. 

Gwindor rose stiffly from the tree stump and began to make his slow way through the garden. A small white moth alighted briefly on the ends of his hair before flying away, and he marveled at the soft wind from tiny wings beating near his face. 

He knelt down at the edge of the flower bed, just as Tiromer returned with a wheelbarrow full of manure, a bucket of bulbs, and two spades. The latter items he threw on the ground at Gwindor’s feet, and tipped the manure onto the empty patch. 

Then he and Gwindor each picked up a spade, and they began the business of mixing the soil. Tiromer whistled, working with a happy energy, while Gwindor panted with the exertion of simply pushing the spade into the ground. 

“This is harder than I remember,” he groused, as Tiromer began to dig a neat row of holes for the bulbs on the far end of the flower bed. 

“Keep at it,” said Tiromer gaily, “You’re making excellent progress.”

“I only wish I could make it  _ faster _ .”

“Less talk, more work. That’s all planting a garden is. Just work.”

Gwindor could not help but roll his eyes.

“You’re not really talking about gardening, are you?”

“No!” said Tiromer, his eyes twinkling, “Well surmised. I’m talking about you, of course. Getting well, like planting tulips, is just work. Not as glamorous as the work of orc-hunting, or Silmaril-seeking, or dragon-slaying, but work just the same.”

In spite of himself, Gwindor grinned. He gathered an armful of bulbs and placed one in the first hole Tiromer had dug. 

“Any more wisdom for me this morning, Tiromer? Or did you spend it all thinking up that gardening speech?”

He looked around quickly, half-expecting Tiromer to throw a pebble at his head. But instead, Tiromer straightened up, cocked his head thoughtfully, and said, “‘ _ You cannot step twice into the same river.’ _ ”

Gwindor nodded, familiar with the old adage.

“‘ _ For all things change, and nothing remains still.’ _ Finduilas told me that once. She was full of her mother’s old Sindarin sayings.”

His heart twinged again at the thought of Finduilas. He really did miss her terribly. But she was a regret now, and nothing more could be. The river flowed unceasingly onward, and never backward, as cruel as that was.

“You still love her,” Tiromer said baldly as he bent down to sweep the soil over a planted bulb.

“I do,” said Gwindor. It was a relief to say it aloud: “I love her, and always will.”

“Then go to her, after you leave here. She loves you also.”

Gwindor shook his head.

“You don’t know of what you speak.”

“I do,” said Tiromer, locking Gwindor’s eyes with his green ones. “I know.”

Gwindor was suddenly irritated. He stood up, cradling a few bulbs in his elbow.

“I would rather you kept your own counsel on this matter, Tiromer. I like you, but Orodreth’s paying you to repair my body, not my past. Though I can’t imagine why; I thought the man hated me.”

Tiromer squinted at him with an odd look on his face. There was a long pause. The fair elf selected his next words with care.

“Orodreth isn’t paying me,” he said measuredly. 

Gwindor frowned.

“What do you mean, Orodreth isn’t paying you?”

“The king isn’t the one who paid for your treatment.” 

“Then who--”

“It was Finduilas. And she did so against her father’s will. As a favor to her I agreed to cover your expenses while you dwelt here, but she came up with the rest herself.”

“But--”

Gwindor’s eyes widened.

“But that must have cost a fortune! Where did she get that money, if not from her father?”

They were interrupted that moment by a nurse, who had come tiptoeing along the garden path. She beckoned to Tiromer, who dusted the soil from his hands and walked over to her. The nurse whispered something urgently into Tiromer’s ear, looking conspicuously over at where Gwindor still stood on the patch of soil. Tiromer’s expression grew pensive.

He turned back toward Gwindor.

“I suggest you ask Finduilas that question yourself,” he said, “It seems that she’s here.”

At once, Gwindor flung the bulbs to the ground, turned on his heel and walked back toward the house. His excitement fortified each step with a new, urgent strength. Question after question flooded his head as he threw open the back door, even as his heart pounded furiously in his chest at the thought of seeing her face after all this time. 

There she was, sitting with her hands folded in the drawing room, patiently awaiting his arrival.

“How did you do it?” he demanded at once, “What did you do?”

Finduilas tilted her head, smiling.

“Good morning, Gwindor. You look well.”

“Answer me, Finduilas. What did your father make you do for the money? I know it wasn’t him, Fae; I know it was you.”

But Finduilas tossed her hair and rose from her seat. She went over and gently caressed his cheek, ran her thumb over the scar on the corner of his mouth.

“The last time I saw your face, I had just thrown a glass of wine into it,” she marveled, “Has it really been so long? It’s good to see you.”

“Fae--”

“My  _ father _ didn’t make me do anything. I did it myself.”

She looked him in the eye as she continued: “I sold Malorant.”

“You  _ what _ ?”

“I sold Malorant. He still has a few years left of his prime, Gwindor, and his sire-price alone worth his weight in gold. It wasn’t hard to find a buyer. In fact, there was something of a bidding war. It’s said there isn’t another horse in Beleriand like him, even belonging to the horse-lords that bred him.”

“Fae, you shouldn’t have,” said Gwindor angrily, “You loved that horse. You said yourself that you wouldn’t sell him for all the gold in the kingdom.”

“And I wouldn’t!” laughed Finduilas, “What use had I for gold back then? Yes, I was sad to part with Malorant, because he was a dear friend. But he understood that it was for your sake, and his new master will treat him well. The price he fetched will pay Tiromer to care for you for as long as it takes to get you well again, and all the medicines you need, with some extra left over for a few years of a modest pension-- more than enough for you to live off of while you find your bearings. You’re getting better, Gwindor. That’s all that matters.”

“I can’t accept this,” said Gwindor, sweeping his fingers through his hair, “I can’t accept your charity. I won’t.” 

He began to pace up and down the drawing room.

“Charity?” scoffed Finduilas, “It’s  _ me _ , Gwindor. It’s us. We help each other! ‘In sickness and in health,’ remember?”

Gwindor stopped pacing and glared at her. How dared she? How could she flaunt before him the vows they would never take? How could she imagine it would assuage the shame of her making a beggar out of him? 

“Fae, listen to me--”

“No,” said Finduilas impatiently, “ _ You _ listen to  _ me _ . It’s already done; I couldn’t go back if I tried. Was I supposed to watch you starve to death like a dog? You once dove into the rapids to save Malorant because you knew I loved him. You would do the same for me and more. So for once, swallow that pride of yours, Gwindor, son of Guilin, and let me take care of you. You’re not alone; not while I’m still here.”

She took his hands as he stood there, spluttering. His expression vacillated between his fury, and his gratitude, for what she had done. 

Finally, he said in wavering words laden with love: “I don’t have any idea what to say to you, Fae, but I very badly want to kiss you right now.”

He looked earnestly into her face, scouring it for her answer with his crystal-blue eyes. But Finduilas’s face fell, and Gwindor’s heart with it. She reached up and cradled his head in her hands, and touched her forehead to his.

“What’s the matter?” asked Gwindor, but it was clear from the heartbreak in his voice that he already knew the answer. His breath hung heavy with longing on her eyelashes; his lips trembled with the effort it took to resist simply putting them over hers. 

“Túrin and I are seeing one another, Gwindor. We may be betrothed soon. My father’s already given his blessing.”

Gwindor closed his fingers gently around her hands again, savoring their warmth. The river flowed ever onward, after all. He wondered whether she still felt it at all: the old embers, the gentle ache between them?

“Túrin.” He repeated the name, weighing it in resignation. His greatest friend was also the thief of all he held dear. “Well, if it can’t be me, then I’m glad it’s him. He’s the only man in the world who comes close to deserving you, and I’m afraid I may hate him for it. I don’t want to. I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” said Finduilas, her voice breaking, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you before now. I just thought, well, maybe it would be better for you. I thought it was what you wanted.”

“So did I,” said Gwindor, “And yet seeing you today brought be more joy than I’ve had, in longer than I can remember.”

“Me too. Do you know something? Víressë told me as I set out to see you that she hadn’t seen me so happy in twenty years.  _ Twenty years _ . Can you believe that? Well, Gwindor, I have Tiromer’s permission for your time this afternoon. What shall we do together? Walk in the forest? Or have lunch? I brought some  _ lembas _ and wine, and some fruit as well--”

But a sudden overwhelming exhaustion overtook Gwindor then, and Finduilas’s bright blue eyes filled with concern when she saw it on his face. Her voice faltered, and she said: “Or, perhaps another day would be best, then?”

“Yes,” said Gwindor, “Perhaps. I’m sorry, Fae. That all sounded very lovely.”

Finduilas shook her golden head earnestly.

“Not at all,” she said, “It’s important you have your rest. Take care, Gwindor! I’ll call again very soon.”

She brushed his cheek with her lips before leaving. Gwindor watched her go, lamenting every step she took away from him. He didn’t look around as he heard Tiromer come in.

“You heard the whole thing, I take it?” he said dully.

“I’m afraid so,” Tiromer gently answered. He came and stood by Gwindor’s side. Together they watched Finduilas’s shape shrink into the distance along the forest path.

Then Gwindor buried his face in Tiromer’s chest and cried.


	9. Blue Tourmaline

Turuhalmë would always be a special night for Nargothrond. For one thing, it marked the height of winter, and thus the birth of the new year. For another, it was the longest of all nights-- a fact that King Finrod celebrated with a log-drawing ball each year that began at sundown. But to Finduilas, Turuhalmë was special for another reason, even among the special nights. It was the night she would meet the man she would love like no other.   
And this man would love her until the end of all things-- until he drew his very last breath in the dying of the world; until the last mountain had collapsed into the very last dried sea; and the last, dim little star faded from heaven, leaving darkness.  
That evening, Finduilas didn’t know it, of course. It was just another annual Turuhalmë ball, a routine holiday in an inconspicuous year-- just the kind of evening where serendipity accosts the unsuspecting.  
The huge ballroom was buried in the heart of the castle. This chamber had not been built up from the ground, but hewn deep into it by King Finrod himself with the aid of Dwarves. Magnificent iron chandeliers, wrought in the shape of elk-heads, threw firelight over smooth, dark stone. Today, bunches of bloodred seregon berries lined the walls, and fragrant pine boughs adorned the iron chandeliers in celebration of the log-drawing.   
In those days, Finrod, not his brother Orodreth, was king. Wise and fair, crowned in the straw-gold hair that marked the children of the House of Finarfin, and dressed in his usual white, he flitted about hither and thither like a bird. Now he paused to laugh merrily with his guests; now he was kneeling to the ground to speak weightily with small children, or running to take a turn on the gilded harps when the musicians stepped away.   
Orodreth, carefree and smooth-browed, looked on after Finrod with the utmost admiration, never dreaming of one day having to ascend his throne.   
Lords Celegorm and Curufin, the third and fifth sons of Fëanor, had happened to visit Nargothrond that season. They kept their own counsel. Occasionally Celegorm reached down to stroke the head of his gigantic, loyal hound, Huan, where it lay on his lap under the table.  
Finduilas had always thought there was a solemn kind of warmth to the Royal Ballroom that well suited the cold months. Tonight she was clad in indigo, and girdled intricately in gold. Her painted lips were dark and full as cherries, her golden head ornamented with silver combs behind each ear, bearing tiny strings of pearls. As always, she sat among the court ladies, speaking to no one, haughtily surveying the dancers, and waving off suitors like flies.   
As she stifled a pretty yawn, a man’s voice interrupted her picturesque indifference.   
These words would begin it all: the summer afternoons in the Narog; the twilight upon the rocks by the Pools of Ivrin; the bloodstained blue banner; the years alone; the betrothal and its breaking, and Túrin, and the strange, sad years after.  
“Lady, you’ve dropped this.”  
Finduilas closed her mouth and looked around toward the speaker. A dark-haired man stood there, very handsome at a first glance. He patiently regarded her with pale, crystal-blue eyes, holding out a silver comb by one delicate string of pearls. Finduilas bashfully bought her fingers over her ear where her comb should have been. It was gone.  
She accepted the ornament from the stranger. Briefly, their fingers brushed.   
“Thank you,” she said, “I would have missed this very much.”  
“Then I’m happy to have returned it, Lady Finduilas,” he said, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look very beautiful tonight.”  
Finduilas waited expectantly. But the man merely smiled at her and bowed. He really was handsome-- his face bright and young, his manner of dress spare but tasteful.  
“May I be of further service, Lady?”  
“Ah--”   
Finduilas was perplexed. She thought he was going to ask her to dance-- perhaps he had even stolen the comb out of her hair himself, all for a chance to speak to her. Men had tried odder things before.  
The stranger’s eyes darted over her face, reading her slightly disappointed expression. Understanding at last, he cried out: “Oh!”  
He seemed embarrassed to realize his omission. Finduilas blushed and cleared her throat. She glanced quickly at the ladies arrayed around her. They were smirking. It wasn’t often that a man flustered Finduilas this way.  
“Would you like to dance, Lady Finduilas?” he asked, too late.  
“Certainly,” she said sheepishly, and took his proffered hand.  
When they had chosen a comfortable place on the floor, and the lute-players picked up a new melody, his hand drifted to her waist. She liked it there, she thought, as her own hand found the groove where his shoulder met his arm. He led her gently but surely. Every step was right on time; every gesture and turn practiced and neat. And he held her just the right way: feeling, guiding; not smothering.  
The song ended as he pulled her in close again, so that her back rested against the undeniably pleasing angle of his chest.   
“You dance well,” said Finduilas.   
“Thank you, Lady!” he replied happily, “And thank you for the dance. I love dancing. I hope you’ve had as lovely a time as I have. Well, goodbye then-- No!”   
He had been leaning down to kiss her hand when the next song started, and he straightened at once, imploring her with his crystal-blue eyes.  
“No! Forgive me! They’ve started another song, and this one’s my favorite. Would you do me the honor, Lady?”  
Finduilas, who had been hoping for another dance, smiled kittenishly.  
“It would be my pleasure, Lord--”  
There was another conspicuous silence. She blushed again.   
This was because under normal circumstances, men fell over themselves, desperate to introduce themselves to her. They usually blurted out their names, parentage, and titles all at once at the earliest possible opportunity in the hope that these might impress her. So Finduilas rarely had to ask anyone the question she now asked her agreeable companion.  
“What’s your name?”  
“Oh!” cried the man again. He shook his head quickly, again embarrassed. “It’s Gelmir, Lady. Gelmir, son of Guilin. At your service.”  
Finduilas’s golden eyelashes fluttered, subtly, once.   
She tossed her hair deftly out of her face, over her shoulder white and bare beneath diaphanous silk. She watched his eyes, waiting to see where they would wander...  
...They remained on her face. Puzzled, she tried tightening her hold on his arm. At this, Gelmir jumped back in surprise.  
“Oh!” he said yet again. It was his turn to blush. “Oh! I--”  
Finduilas let go at once, utterly humiliated. She turned to go.  
“Wait--” he swiftly reached out for her wrist.  
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pulling her hand away, “I had thought-- Well, usually-- Never mind! I’m sorry! It was lovely to meet you, Lord Gelmir. Truly. Good night!”  
“No, no,” said Gelmir, and now Finduilas heard earnest regret in his voice, “I’m sorry. I’ve been very rude tonight. I don’t... I’m not, I can’t-- I mean…”  
He huffed, furious with himself.  
“I mean, there’s someone I would very much like you to meet, Lady Finduilas. Someone I think you’ll like.”  
“Of course,” said Finduilas, but now she was smiling. As Gelmir had floundered for words, he had glanced noticeably to where Celegorm-- silver-haired, cruelly good-looking-- still conferred with his brother. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and took Gelmir’s hand once more.  
“Shall we?”  
Delighted, Gelmir led her toward the far corner of the hall.  
The man he tapped on the shoulder looked remarkably similar to Gelmir, even from behind: tall and lean; hair in the very same shade of dark brown.  
“Oh, no,” said the man, turning around, “Not another one, please, Gelmir--”  
His words halted on his tongue when he saw the woman standing next to his brother. His eyes, too, were crystal-blue.  
“This is Lady Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth, of the House of Finarfin,” announced Gelmir, with just a hint of smugness.  
“Lady Finduilas,” repeated the brother, almost wonderingly. He rose and politely bowed.  
“Forgive me. I’m Gwindor, son of Guilin.”  
“Well met, Lord Gwindor,” said Finduilas. She winked kindly at Gelmir and sat down.   
Gwindor was just as handsome as Gelmir, but his face was more solemn, and his jawline just slightly steeper.  
“Lady, you needn’t humor me for my brother’s sake,” he said, “Gelmir has no interest in beautiful women, so he saddles them with me.”  
He took a sip of his wine, dropping his eyes as though expecting her to leave. Finduilas smiled mischievously.  
“And do you like beautiful women, Lord Gwindor?” she asked.  
Gwindor looked up, surprised. Gelmir, of course, had shrewdly disappeared.   
In fact, Gwindor had just now been drinking alone precisely because he did like beautiful women. And they liked him. What Gwindor did not like was what had occurred minutes ago: several beautiful women, all of with whom he had perhaps exchanged overly friendly words, surrounding him and demanding that he choose between them.   
Gwindor, thus confronted, and totally unprepared, had blurted out the truth: he could not choose. He intended never to marry. And he would have made a sacred vow to this effect if such a thing weren’t blasphemous.   
After the stunned silence, those among them who had liked this answer had remained; that is to say, none of them. So here he was, licking his wounds alone. And Gelmir, continually presenting him with the women he himself had no choice but to disappoint, only made things worse. There were rumors of a betting pool several tables down on which of Guilin’s sons would break more hearts before Turuhalmë was through.   
They each had a glass of wine as Gwindor explained all of this to Finduilas. When he finished, he apologetically reached for the wine to refill her glass. But she held up her hand.  
“You intend never to marry?” she asked, “Why?”  
Her voice was more curious than accusatory.   
“Because--” he gesticulated fervently, a little drunk. “Because it’s so silly, anyway. Would you choose just one dress to wear for the rest of your life? Just one food to eat, or one song to hear? Well, then why choose just one man? Some are clever, and some are handsome, but the clever ones can’t dance, and the handsome ones are the very worst of all.”  
At this, Finduilas scoffed and rolled her sapphire eyes.  
“What?” said Gwindor, offended.  
“That’s not the reason.”  
“It is!”  
“It isn’t. It’s what you tell your father to vex him. I want to know the real reason.”  
Gwindor stared at her, open-mouthed and indignant. She stared right back, her golden brows bemusedly raised, and waited.   
He sighed and grudgingly admitted, “My mother.”  
Finduilas nodded impatiently, as though he had started telling a joke she had heard too many times before.  
“She left, didn’t she? She promised your father eternity, but she wearied of him, and she left him, left your brother, and left you. How could you trust anyone after that?”  
“It wasn’t like that!” said Gwindor. Finduilas was surprised to hear sudden hurt in his voice. “Not like that at all. I mean, yes, she left. I was fifteen and Gelmir was twelve. She thought we were old enough-- we weren’t. But that’s not the point. They were so unhappy, she and my father. They fought every minute. My father gambled and drank. When my mother married him, she had hoped to change him. She was sweet and happy once, but turned suspicious, shrewish, and miserable as the years passed. I was relieved when she walked out the door. She was finally free.”  
The smile had faded from Finduilas’s face. Her hand fluttered on the table, tempted to touch his arm.   
“Oh-- Gwindor, I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t know.”  
Gwindor shook his head.  
“It’s all right. You wanted the truth and so I give it. The truth is, I’m afraid-- what if one day I treat a woman like that? What if I make someone that miserable? I’m just as reckless as my father is, just as prideful and impulsive. So, I don’t know. Maybe it’s best this way. I love my father, but I’ve tried hard not to be like him. I don’t drink. Well--”  
He glanced at his second empty wineglass, and grinned guiltily. “Not usually.”  
Finduilas grinned back at him. “And, if I had to guess,” she said, “You don’t gamble either. Not usually.”  
Gwindor’s eyes widened, and he blushed. How innocent he looked right then!  
“Lady Finduilas, I like you a great deal. But what do you see in a fool like me? I’ve squandered enough of your evening as it is. Yet I’m grateful. A poor wanderer rejoices when the jeweled songbird alights on his shoulder, and begrudges her nothing when she flies away.”  
Finduilas tilted her head, intrigued by this little speech; intrigued by all of it. Gelmir had been handsome and charming, but she felt different entirely about Gwindor. Though he spoke humbly now, his bearing was straight and proud. His eyes evinced a worldly toughness; yet it dissolved as soon as she looked straight into them.   
“I’m not a bird,” she said, “I’m a woman. I have no wings to fly whither the wind blows. But with my legs, as you do, I walk where my will takes me. I’m an Elf, Gwindor, like you.”  
And Gwindor replied in awe: “So you are.”  
Finduilas held out her hand.  
He was still wonderfully unfamiliar to her, like the nameless land beyond the map’s edge. She wanted to walk slowly through that land. She wanted to drink its rain and lay in its sunshine. A man you’ve just met is a pristine continent: undiscovered, unspoilt, and new.  
Gwindor contemplated her outstretched hand. He took a breath, cast a thousand nameless fears from his heart, and took it. A mysterious, happy warmth spread through Finduilas’s arm from where they touched. This she had hoped for, had almost expected. What she had not expected was the other feeling that accompanied it, a different feeling: a sense of…  
Certainty. His hand belonged in hers, as surely as could be; as surely as snow belonged in the winter, and sunlight belonged on summer’s ponds. And he knew it too.  
Just then, the ring on Gwindor’s finger caught her eye. It was a plain silver band set with a dazzling pale blue tourmaline, the exact color of his eyes. Though spare in ornamentation, the ring had a certain honest beauty that appealed to her. It did not claim to be what it was not.  
“You like it,” observed Gwindor, following her gaze, “My father gave it to me. It’s an heirloom. Not worth much, but passed down for generations, through firstborn sons.”  
“I like it,” agreed Finduilas.  
“Take it, then,” he said. Before she could protest, he was already slipping it off of his own finger. “If you like it, then take it. It’s yours for as long as you wish. I only ask that you return it to me when it no longer brings you joy.”  
Finduilas took the ring. How satisfying the simple silver band felt under her thumb. How brightly the little blue crystal caught the firelight, sending dancing lights across their faces. She had been presented with beautiful things before-- so often she indeed tired of it. In the past, she had turned up her nose at diamonds bigger than chestnuts, had refused gemstones that gleamed with the light of the stars themselves.   
One might ask what was so remarkable about the object she now held, but the truth we know already: that Finduilas was always able to see the true worth of things, things that regular eyes passed over or even scorned. In horses. In men. In rings of pale blue tourmaline.  
Gwindor had to lean in to hear her now low, soft voice.  
“I will keep it, then, Gwindor,” she said, “And...what do you desire in return?”   
“There is one thing,” he said, and he beckoned for her to come closer still.   
When Finduilas’s ear just brushed the tip of his nose, he whispered: “Just don’t tell Gelmir. He sulked for a week when our father gave me the ring and not him. I’m older, yes, but he always thought he looked much prettier wearing it than I...”  
For some reason, Finduilas broke out giggling so hard she almost fell out of her chair, and Gwindor immediately reached out to steady her. Now he was laughing too.   
This is how Gelmir found them, an hour later: noses almost touching, giggling like children, looking into each other’s eyes over their hands.  
“What’s so funny?” he asked.   
They only laughed harder. The blue tourmaline ring was hidden from Gelmir’s sight, safe and warm in Finduilas’s closed hand.


	10. Slip Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The river of time flows onward in Nargothrond, and Gwindor has made a new life for himself in Nargothrond. Then comes some unexpected news.

_ “Suilannad mellyn nín phain. _ I greet you, my friends.”

Gwindor inclined his head at the head of the little schoolchamber. His dozen pupils, dressed in matching gray frocks and neat yellow scarves, bowed back.

“_Suilan allen pethron. _ We greet you, our teacher.”

All except one burly boy named Gilion who sniggered, “_Suilan allen, _ Nîfmadha.”

_ Nîfmadha _. “Mud-face”. 

Admittedly there was a cruel aptness to the nickname: a phrase that neatly described hard lines carved into discolored flesh, an awl dragged through clay. Poetic, really. Túrin was _ Mormegil _\-- “black blade”, after Gurthang. And he, Gwindor, was “mud face”. Once upon a time, Gwindor would have found the occupation of tutoring far beneath him, as he knew the parents of his students did, muttering about his fall from greatness, the debasement of his honor. 

But now Gwindor did not mind it. Although “tutor” was a humble rank before his erstwhile glory, he was no longer the man he was. Now he wanted simplicity more than titles. 

At times, children were unkind to him. Children threw stones and pulled at their cheeks in imitation of his mutilated face. Still he did not anger. He could always forgive children, even Gilion, for their outright cruelty, far easier than he could forgive their parents for their pity.

He pretended not to hear the insult, and waved his hand. 

“_Hafdad _. Sit, please. And open your primers to page fifty-three.”

They sat and obediently leafed through their books. At first they had feared him, but soon had grown accustomed to the bent, scarred man tasked with teaching them the Lore of Nargothrond on _ Elenya _ mornings. Children grow accustomed to things. One by one they had warmed to him. All except Gilion.

“Children, where had we left off last week? Does anyone remember? Narfin?”

“The rise of Nargothrond under King Finrod.”

“Very good. Now the King of Nargothrond--”

Suddenly the door banged open without warning, and none other than Víressë burst in. She waved unceremoniously to the children before swooping in on Gwindor.

“You’re hard enough to find!” 

“What are you doing here?” asked Gwindor, astonished.

“Looking for you, _ persael _! Listen, it’s Túrin and Finduilas. They--”

It was the very last thing he wanted to think about.

“Víressë,” he whispered, “Not now. And don’t use the _ p _-word in front of the children.”

“But--”

“Would you please wait until after the lesson, Lady Víressë?” he asked loudly but politely. Víressë looked around at the children in yellow scarves, staring at her curiously with their palms still in their primers. She pursed her lips, retreated to the back of the chamber, and folded her arms.

“Now, where were we, children? Ah, yes-- King Finrod fought Morgoth with Songs of Power, but was bested, and thus met his end fighting at Beren’s side. After his death, the crown of Nargothrond was passed to Lord Finarfin’s second son, Orodreth.”

A blond, doughy-faced boy raised his hand.

“Yes, Dolias?”

“Lord Gwindor,” said Dolias timidly, “Why didn’t King Finrod have any sons?”

Gwindor nodded.

“A good question, Dolias. You see, King Finrod never married. The woman he loved, Amarië, did not follow him into exile.”

Little Narfin, the cleverest in the class, piped up in excitement, “But why didn’t anyone else fall in love with him? Was he ugly?”

Then she glanced at Gwindor’s face and winced apologetically. But Gwindor only smiled. 

“He wasn’t. In fact, he was very fair. Kind, too, and skilled in many arts.”

“Why, then?” asked Dolias, confused, “Why didn’t he marry another woman and present her with a set of plum-stones?”

Now it was Gwindor’s turn to be confused. “Plum-stones?”

Dolias scratched his head. “My Mama told me that after she and Papa were married, he went into the forest and found the largest, most perfect plums he could find, and presented them to her. She ate them up, stones and all, and that’s how I was made.”

Gwindor’s eyes widened. Well, that was one way to put it. 

From the back of the classroom, Gilion brayed, “That’s not how it happens, stupid.”

“Gilion,” said Gwindor sharply, “That wasn’t kind. Please apologize to Dolias.”

“‘Plum-stones,’” sneered Gilion, “What a ridiculous thing to believe. Not that you’d know any better, Lord _ Nîfmadha. _”

Gwindor shut his copy of the primer and fixed Gilion with a brittle stare. 

“Apologize to Dolias at once, or your father will hear from me.”

“_Gohenanin_.” The word was insincere and dripped with resentment. But Gwindor nodded once in acceptance and flipped his book open again.

“Now, children, the reason King Finrod never married another woman was because--”

“Because he loved her, that’s why!” shouted Víressë suddenly, and Gwindor jumped. He had forgotten she was still standing there. “Because his heart was hers, and it was broken when they parted, and it wouldn’t be whole again until their meeting in Aman! That’s why he couldn’t just marry another woman and make--”

Gwindor coughed.

“--and present her with a set of plum-stones!” she finished angrily, “Listen, Gwindor, you _ persael _\--”

“Víressë, the children,” he pleaded, but she shook her head, indifferent.

“--Túrin asked Finduilas’s hand in marriage last night. She gave him no answer, and asked for one day to think it over. He’ll ask her again in an hour. Well? Do you love her or not?”

The children all looked eagerly at Gwindor. Exasperated, he took Víressë by the wrist and pulled her across the chamber, then outside. 

“Please read the next page in your primer to yourselves,” he called over his shoulder, shutting the door behind them.

Once they were alone, Gwindor hissed, “Look, Víressë, it’s over now. Finduilas and Túrin will be married. I’ve made peace with that, as you must. After everything-- after all I’ve put her through-- it’s just too much to ask of her. For me, having been loved by Finduilas, even just once, was enough.”

He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard, but Víressë did no such thing.

“How can you say that?” she yelled, “There are those who have been rent apart, forced away from someone they loved. Finrod. Me. Finduilas, in the years you were gone. And you’ve been given a second chance, can’t you see? A second chance you’ll just throw away. Ask her, Gwindor. Ask her and she’ll have you; she loves you, _ persael _!”

The door creaked. Víressë frowned and pushed it open again, to find all of the children, even Gilion, huddled behind it, listening raptly. Then Gilion began to chuckle.

“‘She loves you?’ You? Who could love an ugly cripple like Lord _ Nîfmadha _?”

Víressë was merciless. She swiftly caught Gilion’s head in both hands and pressed her face into his freckled nose.

“You,” she said sweetly, “Are nothing but a mean coward. I don’t care if you’re a child, or if others have been unkind to you. You’re old enough to know right from wrong, and if you can’t act it, you’re worth littler to anyone than the tits on a boar. Understand? No? Think it over.”

Víressë released him, and he stumbled back, stunned momentarily into silence. She looked back toward Gwindor. “Well?”

The other children began to urge him on.

“Go to her, Lord Gwindor!” said Dolias.

“Tell Lady Finduilas her you love her!”

“Didn’t you say, Lord Gwindor, that a hero fights for what he believes in, and only then?” said Narfin, “Didn’t you say that the noblest of all causes is love?”

“No!” Gwindor protested, “No. There were heroes once, but no more. The fighting never ends. Why should the world and everyone in it bow before your love, and not some other? Why suppose yours is the cause worth fighting for?”

They all stared at him. Each face held a look of the utmost betrayal. 

Now Gwindor hung his head. He had let them all down-- he, tasked with teaching them the ways of the world. Yes, he had turned his back on what he believed, only because he did not believe it anymore. And he had once believed that he and Finduilas were meant to be together.

Víressë dropped her livid stance. Defeated, she began to walk away.

“Wait.” He took a step toward her. She turned around, eyes bright again.

“You’ll come?”

“Yes. I’ll come. Children, it seems we’ve run out of time for our lesson. My apologies. I will see you all next week.”

But they weren’t listening-- they were shouting over him in celebration. Gwindor smiled and took Víressë’s hand. Together they walked through the winding hall.

But at its end, when Víressë turned in the direction of the castle, Gwindor turned the other way and began to walk into the crystal caverns leading into the city.   
“Where are you going?”

“I must find Túrin.”

Víressë frowned. “But-- do you mean to confront him, then?” 

She hurried after him. He did not reply.

They did not have to go far to find Túrin. As luck would have it, he was there, in the caverns, headed to the castle. He held a small, bright object that he awkwardly pocketed when he saw Gwindor. 

“Well met, Gwindor and Víressë,” he said, “What brings you two this way?”

Víressë heatedly began, “To tell you that you can’t marry--”

“To tell you you _ must _ marry Finduilas,” said Gwindor. 

They looked at him.

“I’ve had dreams, Túrin,” Gwindor explained, “Ever since the bridge was built. Dreams, realer than any dreams I’ve ever known. I’ve seen things. Fire. Arms. Closer now, stronger. I’ve seen things I’ve never laid eyes on in real life. And I’ve seen your…”

He trailed off. But Túrin’s keen gray eyes searched his, and understood. 

“My death,” he whispered, “You’ve seen my death.”

Gwindor nodded gravely.

“Golden scale. Gurthang. A river, and a woman with your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Just the same. But, Túrin--” He took his friend by the shoulders and looked desperately into his face. Such a beautiful face it was, even among the Eldar; yet doom sat there as plainly as did his dark, straight brows. “Yesterday, I saw another end, too. Another reality, battling with the first. Finduilas. A wedding, a safe place. A half-elven child. That child, and Finduilas-- they alone stand between you and your fate. I know it. It’s just a feeling, but a strong one.”

Víressë had retreated against the cavern wall. Her dark, painted eyes glanced back and forth between the faces of the two men. Túrin stepped back. 

Death. It lurked in the mists of the futures all men, as surely as they hated to believe it. Hewing through Orcs by the dozen with his black blade, riding his black horse, he felt invincible. Immortal. And now Gwindor’s words reminded that he was not. For the first time since coming to Nargothrond, a cold, lonely fear gripped him.

Gwindor saw Túrin shudder. But spurred by the urgency of the message, he spoke on. “You must protect her, Túrin. You must keep her safe or all is lost. A war is coming. An army of terrible creatures, from the other side of that bridge. She’s in danger.”

Túrin ran his fingers through his hair, the weight of Gwindor’s prophecy on his shoulders. 

“But Gwindor,” he said almost childishly, “Don’t you love her?”

“Don’t you?”

“I do,” said Túrin, and he meant it, “But not like you do. I know that. And you tell me now that you’d forsake any chance you have left with her…”

“For her safety. And for yours. With my blessing, Túrin, do now what you came to do.”

Túrin hesitated a moment longer, then nodded with conviction. The last obstacle, the last spot on his conscience standing between him and his task was gone. 

“Very well, then, Gwindor. For her sake, then.”

_ And for yours, Mormegil _, thought Víressë contemptuously, watching the two friends embrace in utter disbelief. Then Túrin went on alone.

Gwindor went over and put his hand on Víressë’s shoulder.

“He’ll be good to her,” he said softly, “He’ll defend her, as I cannot. She’ll be happy with him, won’t she, Víressë?”

But Víressë whirled around and jerked away from his touch. Her eyes were bright with tears of fury. 

“Shut up, Gwindor!” she cried, “You’ve ruined everything!”

Meanwhile, Túrin had found Finduilas. She stood at the edge of the bridge, leaning over the tall stone rail. Her golden hair streamed in the Southern wind, reflected in the rippling light on the water. For a moment, he held his breath and marveled at her beauty, her goodness, her wisdom. That moment, he forgot all about Gwindor. He trotted over the terraces before the castle doors and onto the bridge. 

She alerted as he came near. The afternoon sun poured onto her face. Túrin went to her, kissed her, touched the warm light on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her smile was bright as summer. Then he took her by the waist and lifted her straight overhead against the sapphire sky, the image of which looked back at him from her eyes. She was giggling when he finally set her down on the rail. He laid his cheek on the stone beside her and closed his eyes. 

Finduilas brushed away the strands of black hair on his face. There was such fire in Túrin, such terrible greatness and force that she feared that it might swallow him whole, and he would burn out as suddenly as a roaring flame, leaving no trace of himself behind but a silhouette on her heart. 

But when Túrin closed his eyes, he looked like any other young man: beautiful and hapless, docile beneath her touch. The full promise of his prime had awaited him in Nargothrond, and he had reached it, surpassed it, left the rest in the dust like Malorant had in his first year. The Valar had been generous in their gifts to him, as they once were to Gwindor. 

“I love you, Finduilas,” he said, his eyes still closed, “You remind me of a time when all I knew was kindness; when all I saw was Summer.”

_ But I haven’t known eternal summer, Túrin _ , she thought. _ If you only knew. _

She considered the three other words he had just uttered: _ ‘I love you.’ _ How carelessly those words rolled off the Man’s tongue. Elves didn’t say them until there were many shared years and trials between them; until the thought itself grew and glowed and threatened to burst forth; until the tongue could not hold it back. Only then did they make declarations of love.

Mortal Men were different. They couldn’t wait indefinitely for that time to come. So they said it when it was but a glimmer of the truth, hoping the words themselves would make it true. 

“Túrin…”

“I know,” murmured Túrin, “I know Elves don’t say it like we do. But I don’t care. I mean it. I love you.”

At this, Finduilas cast a quick glance at the Doors of Felagund, through which Túrin had just come. Perhaps she was reminded of the other man who had once said these words to her-- or perhaps she was looking for him, waiting for him to miraculously appear, and stop Túrin from asking for what she was about to promise him. But Gwindor was not there. 

“I asked you for a day’s time to give my answer,” said Finduilas. “I thank you for waiting.”

“A day, a week, a year--” said Túrin, “I don’t care. Just tell me, when you’ve made up your mind, either way. But just think of it, FInduilas. Think of how we came to be together here, now. Of the wars and perils and fortune; the turns of fate through time, through generations, that brought the two of us to this very spot. Perhaps-- and it’s a careful ‘perhaps’-- fate has decided we’re to be happy after all.”

Finduilas looked again at the empty entryway. Surely Gwindor knew by now what was coming to pass. Surely Víressë, or someone, had told him. He need only walk through those Doors, and she would not be Túrin’s. But he didn’t. He who once would swim an ocean to reach her; he who survived Angband so he could see her face again. She knew that if Gwindor had wanted to be there, he would have been.

For the first time, Finduilas’s true and willful heart doubted. She had waited for Gwindor a long time: eighteen years, then five more. But things were different now. Perhaps Túrin was right: that it was Túrin’s ring she was meant to wear, not Gwindor’s. That her golden-haired children would be the half-elven sons and daughters of the great _ Mormegil _. That she was to live a bounded life at his side, and grow old, and pass into the great mystery that lay beyond mortal death. She was already falling in love with him. In time she might love him, as much as she had ever loved Gwindor.

“The river flows unceasingly onward,” she whispered, “Never backwards.”

Túrin looked up. He took her hand.

“Onward, then, Finduilas,” he said, “Come onward with me.”

That evening, Gwindor found her sitting at the bottom of the staircase in Minas Nirnaeth, watching candlelight play over the twin knives someone had laid on the altar in commemoration. He sat down next to her. For a long while, they did not speak.

Finally, Finduilas said, “Túrin asked me to marry him.”

“I know,” said Gwindor gently.

“I said ‘no.’”

“I know,” he said again. Once more they were quiet. 

Then Gwindor looked all around him. 

“So this is the Tower of Tears, then,” he said, “You come here still. Often.”

“Víressë told you?” 

“Just now.”

She sighed.

“I came every week when you were gone. I suppose it’s out of habit that I keep returning. But sometimes I come to be alone.”

“And now?”

In answer, Finduilas gestured to the inscribed stone on the far wall. 

“Fifth column,” she said, “First row.”

With his elven-sight, Gwindor read the name carved there into the stone:

GWINDOR, SON OF GUILIN

“Fae…”

“Hundreds of names,” said Finduilas, “Hundreds dead and lost. And of all of us who brought candles to this altar, I’m the only one who ever had someone come back.”

“I wanted to stop him, Fae,” said Gwindor sadly, “But…”

And he recited his reasons again. He wasn’t worthy of her. He wasn’t strong enough to protect her. She was the only one who could save Túrin from his fate. When he had finished, Finduilas lapsed into thought.

“So you fear not just for my happiness, but for my life,” she said, “And for Túrin’s.”

“Every day.”

“And it is your will that I marry him?”

“My will is for your protection. It is the Valar’s will for you to save him.”

Finduilas rose.

“And what about me, Gwindor?” she said, “Didn’t I tell you at our first meeting that I’m a woman, with a will of my own? Not a bird to be kept, not a parley-token of the Valar. My life is mine, and mine alone. I will not marry a man I don’t love, not even if he’ll meet his doom without me. And if such a thing is selfish, then so be it. I want you. No one else.”

Gwindor looked up at her. His crystal-blue eyes flickered and gleamed by the light of the candles. He had prepared to feel fear, even dread at Finduilas’s decision. What he felt instead was a lightness, a joyful relief. They were free.

“You won’t change my mind,” she said.

“And I don’t want to,” confessed Gwindor, “Finduilas, I love you.”

When Finduilas heard these words, her face lit up with a wild joy. She knelt and put her hands on his knees. Her sapphire eyes beseeched him with feral intensity.

“Marry me, then, Gwindor. Marry me like you would have. Say that you will! Say ‘yes!’”

And Gwindor’s smile was so pure and happy that the scars and lines of his face seemed to melt away, and they were once again the two young fools falling in love on the _ Turuhalmë. _

“Yes, Fae. A thousand times, yes.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her onto himself. Her shape, her warmth, her weight were so wonderfully familiar that he almost wept. His body seemed to remember hers, not just from before the wars, but from a time even before that, before he had ever even met her. Surely they were joined once; surely, an eternity ago, their two souls had been one, and had been parted, and had spent that eternity searching for each other. Now they were found. That, Gwindor thought, was fate.

Every part of him wanted her. It was a wanting that could be silent no more-- a certainty that all of her must touch, take, meld with all of him; that their souls must be one again as they were before the first song of Ilúvatar, when all things were still dark, and the Eldar were but a dream of powers that had not awoken. 

He felt his lips moving of their own accord, his hands grasping her bare shoulders beneath her gown. Then her hands, taking his, pulling them further still into places that made his heart shake in his chest; her hands undoing the ties on his collar and moving to the ones on his shirt; and now the still air of the tower cool against the sweat of his pale, scarred chest. 

“Are you sure, Fae?” he said breathlessly, “Should we wait for--”

“I’ve waited long enough,” she said. “And you?” Then she pulled back just long enough for him to reply: “Yes. Yes. All right. Yes.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw the candles on the altar, the blades crossed in offering. Sacrilege, probably. Finduilas followed his gaze, and laughed. 

“Do you remember the last time we did this?”

“Of course I remember. Twenty-three years ago, after that terrible fight we had over the Union of-- Oh--!”

She tore into him now with such ferocity that he had to reach up and stay her with both hands. “Slowly, Fae.”

“Sorry...”

Slowly, gently now, Finduilas ran her mouth over his shivering body, leaving behind veins of bliss, touching him in ways he barely remembered being touched. He was a shattered vessel erratically fixed, and she was molten gold, seeping into all the places he was broken, bringing all the jagged pieces together. Every gasping breath they took echoed over the austere stone steps. In this tower of the dead, they were alive.

Now their skin was bare; they were pressed up against each other, her shoulder in his mouth, her fingers in the crease of his thigh--

Suddenly the ground shook. The candles flickered. A low, rumbling roar sounded from across the river. 

They were coming. 

They parted and rose, hardly daring to breathe. Gwindor reflexively reached down and patted his hip. He was unarmed. 

“Get dressed, Fae,” he whispered. Then he crossed over to the altar and picked up the knives. When she straightened up, he carefully handed one to her.

“Hold it like this-- thumb on top. If you must, small cuts toward whatever part of them is closest. Understand?”

She nodded faintly.

“Good. Let’s get back to the castle.”


	11. Born in the Caul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach, Finduilas and Gwindor confront Gelmir's absence, and their future in a changed time.

_ Dear Gwindor,  _

_ You’ll tease me, like you always do, for writing this note on the eve of battle. You’ll laugh and toss your head, and tell me it’s bad luck-- to leave sentimentality to girls plucking daisies. But regardless, I must write, for I fear leaving things unsaid. I’m not like you-- I wasn’t born in the caul; can’t see the future, don’t know if tomorrow will come. So I write in case we don’t speak again. In case we don’t make it back together this time.  _

_ You were always the stronger one. The bolder one. Yet sometimes you suppose I am the better one-- gentler in spirit, as our mother was, and less given to those vices of brashness and wrath that marked our father. You suppose you’ll end up like him: alone, full of regret.  _

_ But you will not. When I’m gone you must tell yourself that you will not, for I won’t be there to tell you myself. You must believe, as I believe, that you are good. That you deserve love and joy and peace. Know that I trust you, my elder brother, and since the day of my birth have admired how you always tried to do right, at any cost to yourself. _

_ Do you remember when toy swords were bought for us, inscribed with our names? By mistake, I dropped mine down the gorge, where it was lost. You offered me your own, but, spoiled whelp that I was, I refused it, whining that it bore your name and not mine. Then, brother, you threw your own toy down the gorge after mine, proclaiming that if one of us should be without, then we both would. Such have you ever been.  _

_ But no longer after I am gone. You must have your life though I no longer have mine, and you mustn’t hold back on following your heart even if mine beats no longer in Arda. Trust it, always, as I do. At our next meeting, I expect to hear that you’ve lived, and not merely regretted.  _

_ I love you. _

Gwindor finished reading the letter and folded it along its worn crease. 

Then he unfolded it and read it again. 

Once he had had boundless words to share with his brother; an eternity with which to share them. Now he had the fading contents of a slip of paper. And but for Gelmir’s foresight— foresight that he, Gwindor, would ironically never possess— he would have nothing at all.

He read the letter one last time, then set it carefully back down on the writing desk. 

Gelmir had known him, had really known him. They had banded together as boys against the authority of their parents. They had watched one another grow up, all gangly height and cracking voices and first kisses. Two pairs of crystal blue eyes had countless times exchanged secret glances, and laughed at the absurdity that was the world beyond them. He and Gelmir had laid in the grass and talked about the uncles they would be to each other’s children. Gelmir had wanted girls, and Gwindor boys. 

Gwindor gathered his cloak from where it hung on the door and crossed into the sitting room. He glanced at the nest of pure quartzes in the ceiling from where orange daylight filtered in from aboveground. Early afternoon, and he was running a little late.

“Gelmir?”

Gwindor turned to see his father slumped by the hearth. He had not noticed him lying there. Empty bottles lay strewn about him.

“No,  _ Ada _ , it’s me,” he said, “It’s Gwindor.”

“Gwindor?” Guilin rocked haphazardly to sitting. “Gwindor, where is your brother? Where is Gelmir?”

“He’s gone,  _ Ada _ ,” replied Gwindor, “He’s been gone for five years, remember?”

Guilin’s drooping mouth formed inaudible words as he pondered Gwindor’s question. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stated, “Gelmir.”

“No,  _ Ada _ ,” said Gwindor wearily. It seemed like the thousandth time. “He’s not here.”

He went over to his father and gently pried the empty bottle out of his hand. Then he lifted the frail man by the underarms and half-dragged him over to the stone sitting-room bench, laying him on the cushions. 

“Stay here,  _ Ada _ ,” he said hurriedly, glancing up at the crystals again, “There’s a cake in the pantry. I’m going to the city,  _ Ada.  _ I won’t be long—“

Guilin’s yellow hands grasped the hem of his cloak.

“Don’t go…”

Guiltily, Gwindor pulled the gnarled fingers aside and extricated himself. He threw a blue quilt over his father.

“I won’t be long,” he promised again, and left.

Despite his tardiness, Gwindor paused to admire the crowded streets as he made his way on foot toward the castle: narrow and wide, straight and winding, weaving over and under each other like branches in the canopy to dwellings high and low within the vast belly of the fortress of Nargothrond. Each was lit on either side by glowing crystal lamps of every imaginable color, rose and smoke and purple and black, catching the light from above and scattering it in every direction. Sprays of color illuminated the faces of citygoers, and color lay strewn in Gwindor’s path like a whole carpet of gems.

She was waiting for him at the entrance of the glowing caverns leading to the castle. When she saw him, she smiled inscrutably, then turned around and walked inside. Gwindor followed her.

“It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Fae. I apologize; it’s been very rude of me not to call lately.”

“That’s nonsense. You’ve had enough to think about.”

They both ducked an amethyst jutting from the ceiling and walked some time in silence. Whenever they spoke nowadays, Gelmir still hung above their every word like a pall. Everything said, no matter how innocuous, seemed to pertain to the dead man. At first it had been so noxious they scarcely spoke at all. But gradually the flights of grief and anger grew shorter and less frequent. The  _ Bragollach _ slowly receded into memory. Life went on.

The caverns wound steadily upward. Finduilas chattered about parties and balls and court gossip, and to all others it would seem nothing more portentous weighed on her mind. But Gwindor had long since learned to read her eyes:  _ I fear I’m losing you.  _

Gwindor raised his brows and half-smiled:  _ Why? _

_ It’s been five years. I left you to your mourning, but you haven’t come back. I want to help you. I want to be with you. But I don’t know how. _

Aloud, she said, “How is your father?”

“The same,” he said, “One minute he knows me; the next he thinks I’m Gelmir and Finrod’s still king. But somehow, befuddled as he is, he still manages to sneak out and find more wine. I’ll have to start barricading the doors.”

“How terrible. Could you keep a nurse, perhaps?”

“They’ve all quit. Besides, he’s my father. I owe this to him, at least.” A dejected silence followed these words. Gwindor hastily diverted, “Enough of that. You never told me what Víressë said when a lord proclaimed her skin was ‘as a golden pear ripe for the plucking…’”

Finduilas giggled. They had reached the topmost cavern. There was a window here in the rock that overlooked all the crisscrossing streets, terraces, and crystalline lights that Gwindor had passed on the way here. Lush, flowering vines tumbled down from aboveground, framing the window like a woman’s hair. 

_ It’s time _ , said the voice in Gwindor’s heart,  _ time to speak your mind.  _ Hadn’t Gelmir told him to listen to this voice?

Gwindor took a slow, quiet breath and sighed.

“Fae,” he said, “I know I haven’t been myself lately. You’ve been more than fair, more than patient. And so I tell you honestly that I’m still trying to make sense of what’s happened. Of… of Gelmir dying.”

He swallowed. The pure quartzes above had dimmed, and the drops of water began to steal down the vines. Rain. It seemed like a sign.

Bright blue eyes surveyed him, waiting for him to go on.

“I’ve thought about the last words he left me. Of the kind of man I want to be now that he’s gone; of what’s important. The old fears I had are no more-- it’s like they belonged to another man. And—”

Finduilas now hung onto each word as it fell from his lips as though they would change her life. They would. At her pleading attention, at her beseeching face, Gwindor’s heart began to race. Wasn’t it madness, what he was about to say? How could he have thought himself capable of continuing at all? Another day, perhaps, another time. 

_ At our next meeting, I expect to hear that you’ve lived, and not merely regretted.  _

_ Damn it all, then, Gelmir.  _

“And you, Fae, I love you. I’m more sure about that than anything my entire life. Someday— not today, not a week from now, but someday soon— I’ll ask you to marry me.”

Finduilas started. Her face lit up like a sunbeam. She threw her arms around him, crying, “Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!”

Gwindor gave a small, quick laugh of surprise. He had brought no ring, no flowers. He hadn’t spoken to Orodreth. He had only meant to tell her, not to ask directly.

But Finduilas’s joy could not be dampened. Still giggling happily, she told him that she already had a ring from him. That they had time to figure out the rest. That she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather marry than him. And seeing her like this, all smiles and leaps and happy exclamations, filled his heart with light. 

He loved her so very much: she spoke of things to come with such certainty and ardor he had to believe their wildest dreams would come true, in spite of everything, because  _ she _ believed it so powerfully.

Since his boyhood, Gwindor had had unusual dreams— dreams that foretold realities that would be, and that might be.  _ Born in the caul,  _ the midwives had exclaimed to his mother,  _ the mark of the Seer _ . These dreams would one day show him the way out of Angband. They would warn him that Túrin’s and Finduilas’s fates were entwined. But though Gwindor, so it is rumored, could see the future when the Valar so willed, he fully believed that Finduilas could actually change it— that she could make things come true simply by assuring him they would, with that pure and willful smile. 

He gathered her into his arms and held her close as they looked back over the city. He wanted to hear her tell him what would happen once they were wed. He wanted her to show him what that lay just beyond the mist of his mind’s eye, where she alone could see. All of this he whispered into her ear, touching her face, brushing aside her yellow hair. And Finduilas looked deep into his eyes and lay her own hands over his temples, telling him all he wanted to hear. 

“We’ll be wed,” she began, “On the  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ , the First of Spring. And all will be invited from across the realm, and all the little children, rich and poor, will play together in the courtyards, scattering crystals and flowers over all the ways. Afterward, you will come live with us in the castle, where your father will come to call as often as he likes.”

Gwindor swallowed. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers.

“And then, Fae? What comes after?”

She beamed and entwined her slender fingers in his hair.

“Then we’ll have children of our own. Lots of them. The littlest heirs of Finarfin will grow up in Nargothrond. We’ll raise them gently, to be good, and generous, and wise. We’ll tell them stories of the ones who were lost, and the names of Gelmir and Finrod will be on their tongues every day. They’ll learn to dance and ride and sing. They’ll fall in love, and they’ll have their hearts broken, and they’ll run into our arms every time.”

He opened his eyes. “Ah, Fae,” he said, “However did you learn to dream like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hadn’t dared to believe in a life like that, not till you said these things just now. How can you see the way forward when the path darkens and the rain falls?”

Finduilas turned toward the window. For a moment she let the rain give its own answer. Then she said, “You musn’t be afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Of dreaming. So many people are afraid, you know. They shut the windows. They stuff cotton in their ears and muffle the pleas of their hearts. Too hard, too bold, too strange; and haven’t I done enough, they say, haven’t I dreamed enough, and haven’t I had those dreams ripped away? And they go on living these half-lives, full of envy and regret. It’s sad, because the right thing to do is so easy--”

She lifted her hand and put it on his chest. “Listen.”

Gwindor put his own hand over hers on his chest. He knew she could feel his heart pattering beneath her fingers like a little dog scrambling towards its mistress. This heart of his, if it had a will of its own, would leave his body and hurry to her, would curl up in her hands, and beat just for her while she laughed.

“How can you know?” he asked, “How can you trust it; your heart? It says one thing today and another tomorrow. It storms and shines; it seduces and deludes. Don’t men follow their hearts straight into ruin? Fae, I think, sometimes, that maybe it’s better not to want so much. That my heart is greedy and callow and I must temper its wantonness with wisdom. I’ve been so distraught, so angry at the world since Gelmir was taken. Because had I wanted so much more. I had dreams, with him, too, once.”

He was pleading with her to prove him wrong, laying bare all the ugly whispers inside him in the hope she could dispel them. And Finduilas said: “My love, it’s not wisdom you describe, but despair. If one future’s been taken from you, then you must train your sight on another one, a different one. Doesn’t it rain every year after winter? But that’s when we put seeds in the ground. You must make your life beautiful again. Close your eyes.”

Gwindor obeyed. She clasped both of his hands in hers. 

“It’s twenty years from now. Your wildest dreams have come true. What do you see?”

“My father,” he murmured, “Strong again. The children. The river. And you.”

Thus Gwindor and Finduilas talked and talked about the shape their lives would take after they were married; how they would live together, happily ever after in the castle of Nargothrond. They talked until their voices turned husky, until the orange rays of sun from aboveground grew dim and the crystal along the roads below shone twilight blue. 

Then Gwindor muttered, “Oh, no…”

“What is it?”

“I’ve left my father at home all this time with no one to look after him-- The Valar knows what state he’s gotten himself into…”

“Oh, dear,” said Finduilas, “Well--! Then we had better--”

“Head back, yes,” agreed Gwindor hastily, already walking back the way they had come. “Damn it, if he’s wandered off again—”

“I’m sorry!” She gasped, her bright eyes wide as she followed, “It’s all my fault; I kept you—”

“No, Fae, never...”

They wound hurriedly back down through the caverns as dusk fell. Then Gwindor slowed to a halt at the parting of their ways and turned to her.

“I just wanted to say,” he said, “That I came to you with a hundred fears and sorrows in my heart. But you’ve made me so very happy.”

“I’m happy, too,” said Finduilas, radiant as dawn. “How beautiful our lives will be again!”

When Gwindor got home, the front door was locked, as he had left it. A promising sign. He pushed the door open, calling for his father. It was quiet. 

Guilin was curled up fast asleep on the bench by the hearth under the quilt Gwindor had thrown over him. He hadn’t moved an inch. Relieved, Gwindor quietly shut the door behind him. But his father stirred and groggily lifted his head.

“Gelmir?”

“No,  _ Ada _ , it’s me. Gwindor. Gelmir’s gone, remember?”

To his surprise, Guilin nodded. His dark eyes gleamed lucid in the light of the moonlit crystal. “I know. I dreamed of him, Gwindor. I saw his face. I spoke to him.”

“ _ Ada _ ?”

Guilin trembled and took a shuddering breath, and Gwindor realized he was weeping.

“I know I can’t go on like this,” sobbed Guilin, “Drinking myself into senility. Burdening my living son so terribly. But what am I to do? Gelmir’s gone in the world where I’m awake. When I can see clearly, he’s dead. But in my sleep, in my stupors, I can forget…” 

Gwindor reached through the darkness and touched his father’s face. Tenderness and guilt coursed through him, guilt for leaving Guilin alone with the grief slowly suffocating him, while he and Finduilas had flown for hours on the wings of their fantasies. Finduilas’s parting words played through his head.  _ How beautiful our lives will be again! _ He felt sick.

In time, Guilin’s cries faded into slow, even breaths of sleep. Gwindor stayed beside him, stroking the blue quilt. The raindrops from aboveground drummed evenly down. Little by little, he fell asleep himself to the soft rhythm, resting his head on his father’s thin shoulder…

_ Black mud; searing cold; the smell of blood and excrement thick in the air. Then yellow eyes, a leathery mask of a face, a crooked mouth full of jagged teeth that moved, and spoke: _

_ “Say it, filthy elf. And I might not put out your other eye.” _

_ A wraith of a man, dressed in rags, bound in iron shackles that dug into his dirty wrists. _

_ “N-no…” _

_ A clang of metal, a white-orange glow; then, suddenly, the hiss of burning flesh and an endless, tormented scream. _

_ “Say it!” _

_ “All right! All right!” _

_ The hot iron was withdrawn and the man knelt there, shuddering in relief and misery. _

_ “I have no name. I have no brother. I have no father. I serve Morgoth only.” _

_ “Again! Louder!” _

_ “I have no name!” _

_ “Good.” _

_ The clawed hand reached down as if to caress the man’s face. But instead, he suddenly snatched the man by his unkempt brown hair. _

_ “Now look around, elf. This is the last thing you’ll see.” _

_ “No! No! Gwindor! Gwindor--” _

At the sound of his name, Gwindor jolted back in Nargothrond. He awakened still clinging to the scene in his mind’s eye, struggling to see what would happen. But the sight, and the scream, faded away and he opened his eyes, panting and whimpering, next to his father. 

“Gwindor? Are you all right?”

Guilin rose to sitting on the bench. Out of old instinct, he pulled his grown son into his arms and held him there, steadying him against the earthquake.

“Gwindor, what is it? Did you dream, again?”

And, shivering as though still in that cold, dark, awful place, Gwindor nodded.

“He’s not dead,  _ Ada _ . He’s alive. They took him alive. And I’m going to get him back, no matter what.”


	12. Turumbar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nargothrond is no more, and Finduilas and Gwindor are gone. The man called Turumbar is haunted by their memory.

> Then Gwindor said to Túrin: ‘Let bearing pay for bearing! But ill-fated was mine, and vain is thine; for my body is marred beyond healing, and I must leave Middle-earth. And though I love thee, son of Húrin, yet I rue the day that I took thee from the Orcs. But for thy prowess and thy pride, still I should have love and life, and Nargothrond should yet stand a while. Now if thou love me, leave me! Haste thee to Nargothrond, and save Finduilas. And this last I say to thee: she alone stands between thee and thy doom...’
> 
> ...but the Orcs had at once cruelly slain their prisoners, and Finduilas they pinned to a tree with a spear. So she died, saying at the last: ‘Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas is here.’ Therefore they had laid her in a mound near that place, and named it Haudh-en-Elleth, the Mound of the Elf-maid.
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

It had been years since they died, but they always visited Túrin at night, after he had fallen asleep. Some of the dreams were his: these scenes played before him as vividly as they had the day he lived them. But there were some dreams he had not recognized, dreams in which he was someone other than himself-- yet these, too, were so clear that he felt sure they had really come to pass. 

_ Visions _, Brandir had called these latter dreams, and had offered a draught to ward them away. But Túrin had refused them. Dreams, visions, or something else entirely-- it didn’t matter. He did not deserve to be freed from them. He did not deserve to forget…

_ ...that Orodreth, riding in the forefront onto the Field of Tumhalad, had been struck in an instant with so many arrows at once that the form of his body became indecipherable; the shafts protruded from his face, his chest, his limbs, in every direction and he tumbled from his mount, dead, a doll stuck full of pins; Orodreth who had trusted him and built the bridge that doomed them; Orodreth who had loved him… _

Níniel stirred beside him, disturbed by his tossing in the oaken bed they shared. He softly stroked his wife’s hair, and she murmured as she slept once more. Túrin pressed his cheek against the back of her neck. He, too was tired. He listened to her slow, steady breaths; his eyelids drifted closed…

_ Deep in the woods, away from the din of battle, the wounded elf shuddered and choked in his arms. Stumbling, Túrin half-carried, half-dragged him to the edge of the lake. He laid him down on the green. The pale eyes flickered open, and looked all around. At the sight of the setting sun on the water and rocks, he sighed in recognition and lay still. _

_ “Túrin.” _

_ “My friend, you’ve been hurt. Rest here. You’re safe now.” _

_ Gwindor took a shaking, painful breath. He gazed lucidly up at him. _

_ “I’m going to die.” _

_ He said it so calmly, so certainly, that there was no doubt in Túrin’s mind that it was the truth. When Túrin reached down for him, he realized his own sleeve, his shirt, his entire front was soaked in the Gwindor’s blood: too much to fathom, too much to survive. _

_ In that moment, Túrin, the greatest of mortal fighters, the strongest of his time, could do nothing but whimper like a child. He saw Beleg again, gentle and steadfast, mistakenly slain by his hand. He had thought it impossible he could feel as hopeless, as hateful to himself as he did then. But as always, fate had a different answer for him. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry for all of it. You were right about everything; of course you were. And it should have been me, it should have been me… it should have been me!” _

_ He barely knew what he said now in his half-sobbing whisper, as he wasted Gwindor’s precious last moments pleading for forgiveness. _

_ Gwindor blinked. As always, the twisted scar at the edge of his mouth gave him the odd appearance of smiling. _

_ “Incredible, isn’t it?” he said. _

_ Túrin stopped speaking to stare, uncomprehending. But Gwindor spoke on, as though Túrin wasn’t there. _

_ “Incredible. All the countless battles. All the ravages of Angband, all the pain that’s past. All the dreams, and fears, and wild thoughts I once had-- all of the sorrow. It ends here, doesn’t it? Here, by the Pools of Ivrin, with you, Túrin. Everything I ever spoke or thought.” _

_ He took another breath, slower and weaker than the last. _

_ “It’s beautiful, this waste that fate makes of all our desire. Even now, I wonder if the Halls of Mandos are real; if the Undying Lands are tales told to soothe children. If anything other than death is simply another dream.” _

_ Túrin swallowed. He wiped his drying eyes, sat on the grass by the lake, and looked out with Gwindor at the baffling world. _

_ “You know, Gwindor,” he said, “I’ve always wondered the very same thing. _

_ Now Gwindor smiled, really smiled, and closed his eyes again. _

_ “But dreams can be so real, can’t they? The thoughts of what could be drive us, so much more than what is before our eyes. In the darkest hours, I saw her there. I’ve always seen things, you know. I could feel her when I was alone; I could taste her on my lips. She came to me in dreams, and I believed, more deeply than I’ve believed anything, that she was dreaming the very same. Yet when I saw her in the flesh-- a living, breathing woman-- I turned away. I thought she would suffer too much, wedded to a ruined wraith like me to the end of her days. I was a fool. If my Fae had just one minute left to spend in the world, I’d ask her to give it none but me. Save her, Túrin. Keep her safe. Keep her happy. It’s all that really matters anymore.” _

_ “I’ll take care of her, Gwindor,” promised Túrin, laying his hand on the barely rising chest, “I won’t rest until she’s safe. As long as I live I will guard Finduilas with my life. I love her, Gwindor. And I love you.” _

_ But he was gone. _

Túrin awoke again in the darkness of the bedroom. The pillow was damp and cool. Poor Gwindor. A good soul, a gentle guide. He had taken everything from him. Life. Love. All to kill a few more Orcs, all to feel the swing of Gurthang on the open field. And Finduilas, sweet Finduilas, whom he had vowed to guard with his life-- she had been months dead when he finally came to the Crossings of Teiglin. 

_ We tried to save them _ , Dorlas had said, _ but they killed the elf-maidens when we came near, and Finduilas they pinned to a tree with a spear; so she died... _

There had been the knoll they raised over her: _ Haudh-en-Elleth _, Mound of the Elf Maid. Túrin had knelt before the smooth mound, covered in pale yellow flowers. The color of her hair, that Gwindor had so loved. Had she suffered? Has she struggled, had she screamed when they pinned her to a tree like a little white partridge?

It was clear to him now, the cruel game of the world. The good and the innocent died: Lalaith, Beleg, Gwindor, Finduilas. Those who would die before they did a wicked deed, surely did so. And here he, Túrin, remained, the trail of blood ever widening in his wake. The good were; the ruthless grew ever stronger.

Níniel awoke now. She rose and put her arm around him.

“What is it, my dear?” she said, “You’ve been tossing and turning all night. Is it the dreams again? The bad ones; the--”

“Nightmares.”

How simple, how odd, was this woman sleeping beside him: they had found her naked and scared upon the _ Haudh-en-Elleth _; she hadn’t known her own name, or the names for sunshine, or grass, or man, or woman: the women of Brethil had taught her, like an infant. And though she spoke so quickly now in her lilting voice, none knew from where she came. 

Yet Túrin felt he knew her, from a long-forgotten dream, from some life in the past. He loved her so; he loved her all the more because she didn’t know the things he had done. She knew him only as Turambar, the man of the woods, who hunted Orcs with a spear, and not with the black sword he now hated.

“That’s right,” said Níniel, smiling in recollection, “nightmares. Night-mares. Why do they call them that, I wonder? Mares are horses, the-- the little ones. It must be because they run through your head in the dark…”

“Yes, darling,” said Túrin, holding her close, “I’m sure you’re right… horses…”

He saw them over and over again in his mind’s eye: Gwindor. Finduilas. Orodreth. Beleg. Níniel scrutinized his face with her long-lashed, innocent eyes. 

“You’re still upset,” she concluded.

“I am,” sighed Túrin, lying down on his back, “I can’t be awake, I can’t be asleep, I can’t be alone, and I can’t be with company. I’m afraid I’m a bad man, Níniel. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to me.”

Níniel rolled over and drew her legs upward, curling up like a puppy at his side.

“You’re not a bad man,” she said, “You’re a very good man. You’ve killed so many Orcs. Brandir told me. They’re afraid to even come near here, because of you.”

When Túrin’s brow remained creased, she touched it with her hand and ventured shyly: “Do you want to make love to me again?”

He silently ran his eyes over the contours of her breasts, the fullness of her mouth. It was a strange feeling he had sometimes when he was inside her; almost as though she weren’t there at all, and that he lay there intertwined with himself. This he had mentioned to no one. Regardless, there was no desire in him now for her body; no fire or hunger or passion, just a cold and sick sense of dread.

“Not tonight, my love,” he said, “It’s late. I’m going to go sleep by the hearth. I’ll keep you up all night, otherwise.”

He kissed her absently and slipped out from under the blankets. He took his heavy rcoat from where it hung on the door. As he was about to leave the bedroom, he paused and looked back at her.

“What’s the matter, Turambar?”

“Nothing. You remind me of my mother. That’s all.”

But Túrin did not curl up to sleep on the cold, dead hearth. Instead, when he was sure Níniel had finally fallen asleep again, he quietly opened the front door and walked out into the snow. It lay thick and white and pristine over the world in the starlight, and it was a shame for him to tramp through it. But he walked on, alone, along the banks of the freezing river. He did not mind the chill that seeped through his heavy coat and stung his face: the cold punishment, justice, a welcome reminder of his crimes. 

At last, the familiar, gentle slope of the _ Haudh-en-Elleth _ appeared through the falling snow, smooth and sparkling white. As he had when he first laid eyes on it, he knelt down at its foot. His knees smarted on the frozen ground beneath. He shivered and breathed the cold air deep into his lungs.

“Finduilas,” he said, “can you hear me? The world is so strange, and so cruel, without you in it. I’m so uncertain of what’s to come, my friend. Everyone I touch comes to ruin. Everyplace I go turns into dust. If you can hear me, then help me. Please.” He placed his hand gently in the snow, where it left a perfect imprint. “Help me, like I couldn’t help you.”

As if in answer, the nocturnal wind picked up, and the flurries of snow grew thicker, wilder, swirling across his visions until everything went completely white. 

When he looked down, his fingers were no longer rough and strong, but smooth and slender. He felt lighter and wiser all at once, and when he reached up to touch his face, the jaw was smooth and delicate. But just he realized what these changes meant, and whose body he now lived in, a horrible, suffocating heat seized his chest and began to spread…

_ She reached to her chest and wrapped her fingers at the bloodied base of the Orc-spear. The sensation was so strange she momentarily forgot the pain. _

_ “Run, Víressë,” she sputtered, “they haven’t seen you yet.” _

_ “I’m not leaving you!” _

_ “But they’ll kill you--” _

_ “Then I’ll die here by your side.” _

_ Finduilas twisted her neck to look into the dark, defiant eyes shining at her through the half-light. Víressë was crying, as Finduilas had seen her do only once before. _

_ Crying for her. _

_ “You can’t, my love.” said Finduilas. She reached out to put her hand on that young, brown face, “I’m going. To where you can’t follow.” _

_ Víressë whimpered. In vain, she, too, wrapped her fingers around the weapon in Finduilas’s chest and tugged, as though she could reverse the destruction it had done, as though by pulling it out of her she could stop her friend from leaving. But the spear was buried deep in flesh and bone and wood, and didn’t move at all. _

_ “Finduilas, I love you,” she sobbed, “I love you more than I love anyone. How can you tell me to leave? You’re the greatest friend I’ve ever had.” _

_ “And you were mine. You saved me when the men in my life all failed. You loved me when I wasn’t worthy of your love.” _

_ Behind them, the shouting grew louder. In the distance, a fire was starting. Somewhere, a woman’s scream split through the noise. They were running out of time. _

_ “But, my dear Víressë,” she said, “to die for his companion was your brother’s bravery. To live-- to fight on-- that will be yours. Don’t fear, and don’t despair, do you hear me? You must be the strongest there ever was out of Nargothrond. For you will be the last.” _

_ Finduilas was right. She had to live. So she would live not a grieving and regretful half-life, but with passion, and with remembrance; with her whole heart. _

_ Viressë muffled a last, grieving whimper with her hand and gave a single firm nod. Saying nothing, she took Finduilas’s golden head in her hands and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her bloody mouth. Finduilas closed her eyes. Now her friend’s face would forever be the last thing she saw. _

_ “Go now, she whispered. The edges of her vision sparkled and blurred. Her mouth was thick with blood, “go north, and don’t stop till you reach Doriath. Go now, my love.” _

_ A soft rustle, the patter of footsteps disappearing into the wood. _

_ Then she was alone with the spear in her chest. _

_ It was so simply, so crudely made; its purpose so clear. It had come here, all the way from Angband, to bury itself in her heart, to send her to sleep after this long, ugly nightmare. _

_ Oh yes, there had been nice dreams, too. Dreams she and Gwindor once had; dreams that had led ever to despair, in spite of all they had struggled, all that they had fought for them. Now Gwindor was dead. No matter how hard she tried, she would always end up here, pinned to this tree, a struck bird thrashing her white wings at the last. _

_ And yet. _

_ Yet there was only one dream that had ever really mattered. This dream seized her now, singular and powerful like the point of a spear, so clear to she marveled she had never realized it before. It had taken parting, and grief, and now death, for her to see. The dream was simply to be with him, always. Young and strong, or bent and scarred; in the castle of Nargothrond or on the barren shores of some strange and unknown future-- it was all the same, as long as Gwindor would be there. _

_ “Wait for me, my beloved,” she called into her gathering blindness, “wait for me wherever you are, as I once waited for you. I won’t ever be far behind.” _

_ It was thus they found her: still and cold, a trickle of blood on her chin, a faint smile on her lips. In those last moments, she had remembered his laughter. She had seen, in her mind’s eye, a child of three, golden-haired like all the House of Finarfin, gazing into the river with crystal-blue eyes. And that child's father watched over her with eyes that were just the same, brimming with pride. But the man standing there was not Gwindor as he had been before the _ Nirnaeth _ , handsome and whole, but Gwindor as she had last seen him: subdued and humble, like a tree once struck down, his face cruelly scarred and lined, but smiling. _

_ “Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas is here,” she had cried out once in her spite, but as her life slipped away, she had already forgiven him. Túrin or no Túrin, in death or in life, before Angband or after-- the past happened to them again and again even as the future unfolded, all at once; at any moment, she remembered it all as though it were happening right then: his voice in her ear, his hands in her hair, his body next to hers for the first time, inching closer. _

_ As Finduilas took her last breath, the image of his eyes grew brighter and brighter as the rest faded away. Her fingers still weakly caressed the Orc-spear. She willed it to deliver her, swiftly as it had flown, to Gwindor, or else to eternal slumber. _

The snow had stopped, leaving behind silent stillness. The air was clearer than Túrin had ever seen it. Though the vision was swiftly fading, he held fast to the image of the child with the crystal-blue eyes. He pictured the three of them together by the sea somewhere, far from where he could darken their lives again with the doom that hung ever over him. And that image shone as a bulwark against the foreboding within him, a little candle in the dark.

A faint, bright line appeared over the treetops and along the mountains on the horizon. The first morning birds were beginning to call. Túrin stood still for a moment before he turned and made his way homeward, to where Níniel awaited him. As he walked, he gazed over the Southward course of the river Teiglin. Somewhere, farther beyond, it would join with the Sirion, then the great Narog itself, and finally all the weary waters of the land would meet at the river-mouth somewhere, and together tumble safely into the sea.

They would be together now, in spite of him. They would find each as surely as the river flowed to sea. He had not the intention, nor the power, to stop them, at last. And of all the deeds he had done, this, he knew, would burden him no more. 

“Thank you, Finduilas,” he whispered up at the stars, “You always did know what to do, when the world made no sense at all.”

After that night, the visions never haunted him again.


	13. Letters in the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor and Finduilas exchange farewells before what will be a longer parting than they could have imagined.

_ Orodreth would not march forth at the word of any son of Fëanor, because of the deeds of Celegorm and Curufin; and the Elves of Nargothrond trusted still to defend their hidden stronghold by secrecy and stealth.  _

_ Thence came only a small company, following Gwindor son of Guilin, a very valiant prince; and against the will of Orodreth he went to the northern war, because he grieved for the loss of Gelmir his brother in the Dagor Bragollach. They took the badge of the house of Fingolfin, and marched beneath the banners of Fingon; and they came never back, save one. _

_ \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion _

Finduilas looked down into the little basket of cream tarts resting on her knees. Each of the perfectly round sweets was small enough to fit into her cupped hand. Golden-brown flakes of the crusts speckled the crisp white linen they were unwrapped in. She blinked. 

Gwindor shifted closer to her on the green atop the ledge. Below them, the lights of Nargothrond twinkled faintly through the morning fog.

“Won’t you have one, Fae?” he asked softly.

“Yes, I will. Thank you, my love,” she replied. But she continued to stare at the neatly arranged tarts, unmoving.

He reached over and smoothed the curtain of her hair over her shoulder. It was a motion he had repeated many times before, one he did out of habit and of which she rarely took notice. But today she closed her eyes, concentrating on the way his fingers felt against the delicate skin there, how they brushed at the soft down at the nape of her neck. 

“You’ll be hungry later,” he coaxed her again, “Go on.”

This last statement was too much for her. She hurriedly set the basket on the ground between them and hugged her own knees tightly.

“ _ You  _ eat them,” she blurted out, awkward and uncertain, “I could have them anytime I wanted. But you-- I mean, who knows when--”

She broke off and was again silent, and now Gwindor too was quiet. 

_ The horns.  _ She was waiting for the sound of the horns.

Any moment now they would sound the horns, Finduilas knew. And as her father had done many a morning of war, so now her lover would leave her no later than the third horn cried through the fog for the warriors to rally. 

Had she ever dreaded to hear a sound as much in her life? 

Yet she listened for them intently, biting her lips. She would be brave for him-- yes, she would-- though she wanted to dissolve, to weep, to beg him to stay-- she would not. She would secret her emotion into the locked chest of pain inside her, the chest that by the end of her life would seem able to fit the entire world’s worth of grief. That was the right thing to do. The brave, womanly thing to do. 

“My love, you’re shaking,” said Gwindor. 

He was right. Her breath was coming out of her mouth in shuddering bursts that had nothing to do with the winter’s chill. She swallowed.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“And nor do I want to, Fae.”

But the cool steadiness of her lover’s young face convinced Finduilas in an instant there was no holding him back from what he believed he must do. Morgoth held Gwindor’s younger brother captive in the heart of his black fortress. And because Gwindor loved his brother, he would charge that insurmountable gate with a lance in hand and a stranger’s seal emblazoned on his shield. How could one tell him that it was futile? How could one tell him that--

“You still have a choice,” she whispered. 

She startled herself by daring to utter those words. Sure enough, Gwindor’s eyes flashed, like crystals flashing in a flame. 

“How can you say that?” he demanded, “How can you?”

“Please,” she said, even as she choked on the futility of her words, “Please don’t go. I know you want to save Gelmir; I know how much you want him back. I miss him too. But you can’t ride to Angband with them. What if you’re killed? What if they take you too?”

Gwindor shook his head. His expression did not soften one bit.

“Then I’ll be killed,” he said, “Then I’ll be taken. I won’t abandon my brother.”

Finduilas threw the basket of tarts aside. She jumped to her feet and stood before him.

“And what about me?” she said, “Will you abandon me? A hundred more men won’t tip the scales out of Morgoth’s favor, but if you stay with me--”

Gwindor, too, rose to his feet, as always slightly, but noticeably, taller than she.

“If you think that just because you say so, I’ll stop loving him, stop missing him, stop hearing his screams when I think I’ve fallen asleep-- ”

“You’ll die if you go!” cried Finduilas, and yes, they were shouting now, “The mission is doomed; Father told me so. Call me selfish if you must, but _I love you_, Gwindor, and I need for you not to ride into war against Morgoth under the command of that--- that _lunatic!_”

The two glared at each other, each unable to understand why the other could not see; could not simply agree. In a way, Finduilas was right, in a way, though Gwindor’s grief and his pride would not allow him to realize it. The company out of Nargothrond would not go with Orodreth’s blessing. Gwindor alone had answered the desperate call for an alliance of kingdoms -- a call issued by a man who had made far too many enemies, had cost them all far too much sorrow already. But she did not know that the ruin of Nargothrond was to come, whether or not Gwindor’s forces rode to Fingon’s aid; that she and Gwindor would never know peace in Arda while Morgoth still lived. 

She saw only that Gwindor would be taken from her; and not that Lord Maedhros, though looked upon with as much ignominy as he was in this realm because of his brothers’ deeds, was perhaps their only remaining hope.

“Maedhros is not a lunatic,” said Gwindor, vexed, “He’s a clever general, a good man.”

“A good man? A  _ good man _ ? It was a good man who slaughtered the Sindar? A good man who would leave no innocent blood unshed to recover his precious Silmarils? He doesn’t care a bit about anything but the horrible oath he and his brothers took. They can rot in the darkness they’ve bound to themselves, for all I care, but they are not going to take you with them into this idiotic fucking war--”

“I don’t care, Fae!” Gwindor snapped suddenly, “Don’t you understand?  _ I _ don’t give a damn about the Sons of Fëanor, or their oath, or about Morgoth in the North. They can tear each other’s throats out for all I care. I just want Gelmir back.”

There was again a reckless resolve in his face. Finduilas said nothing.

“Surely you understand that,” said Gwindor, and he was the one pleading with her now, “Surely you see that. If it were any other man than me, Fae, if it were any other man’s brother, then you’d understand--”

Finduilas suddenly found her voice again.

“You’re  _ not _ ‘any other man!’” she cried, and as she said this, the tears pressed up against her throat, “You’re not; you’re mine.  _ Of course _ , if it were any other man, it would be different. If it were another man, I wouldn’t care!”

Gwindor heard her now, as though for the first time. Not her words, not her arguments, but the love behind them. He lowered his guard and sat down on the grass. A moment after, she joined him.

The shouting was over. They were in love again. She leaned closer to him, her gold hair framed white against the rising sun. He kissed her. He cradled her face in both hands and took her lips in his own as if pulling a rose out of the frozen earth, and trembled to feel the weight of her body fall into him.

There on the cold, grassy hill, as the two lovers embraced that day, their bodies understood an ancient pact that fate would not honor: that they were not meant to be parted; that their souls should no more be rent asunder than an animal’s heart should be torn from its chest. Finduilas laid her cheek against Gwindor’s heart. She could feel her body stirring from the inside -- the heat between her legs, the ache in her breasts; his own awakening pressing against her knee-- but she didn’t want it, not that, not now. 

Her mind was disconnected, estranged from her desire. It only distracted her, and she willed it away. She did not want him to make love to her now. And she was thankful that Gwindor seemed to share this feeling. His hand caressed her shoulderblade, her back, her hip, but he did not touch the ribbons on her dress or the clasps on her bodice. She held him fast.

_ Never looked back. Never feared. Never cried _ . 

So the latter-day storytellers would recount the last, ill-fated ride of the Nargothrondrim to aid the Sons of Maedhros. But indeed, Gwindor would look back over his shoulder every day of his life and wonder. And there were yet many tears to be shed still for the woman he loved.

“I’m sorry, Fae,” he said, “I’m so sorry. But there is no other way.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Finduilas. Inexplicably, tears ran down her face again, “I’m not angry with you any longer. I love you, Gwindor, and I’m afraid for the future. What will become of us?”

Gwindor held her close, and brushed the dome of her forehead with his lips. 

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, “Hard times are ahead. I can sense it. But do you know what scares me the most, Fae?”

“What is it?”

“That we’ll lose each other. That we’ll grow cold. That we’ll be distant and strange instead of loving like this, even when we fight. So long as that doesn’t happen, there is nothing we can’t do. Together.”

Finduilas looked full into his crystal-blue eyes, shining with sincerity and hope. She loved him so much right then that it threatened to overflow once more, so much that she didn’t know what to do with it all. 

The two of them together was far more than the sum of them alone. They were powerful, she thought, when they had one another. And she vowed to herself that she would never let him go. That if he called to her, in good times or in bad, she would always answer. She reached over and intertwined her fingers with his. Nearby, the basket of tarts had been upturned, and lay forgotten in the grass. 

“Together,” she agreed. “Go and join the Union of Maedhros, Gwindor, as is your destiny. I won’t begrudge you. I’ll think of you each day. You’ll be in my every gesture, every thought. That’s how I’ll be with you when you’re gone.”

“Fae, I don’t want to go. I know it isn’t fair--”

“It isn’t,” said Finduilas resolutely, “For either of us. But we’ll have to do better than what’s fair, Gwindor, if we’re to survive this. Won’t we?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “We are far better. I know it. Because when we’re together, something is there that wasn’t there before. Together, we’re--”

They were immortal. They were invincible. They were -- 

“We’re going to make it, oh, love of my life.”

There were a few more moments of stillness, of peace, and he ran her thumb over her eyelids, filled his eyes with the glow of her face. Then, at last, came the sound they had been waiting for, had been dreading to hear: a clear, mournful, note, piercing through the fog. 

The horn had sounded for the first time. 

Finduilas closed her eyes.

“Goodbye, my love.”

But Gwindor didn’t start, didn’t move, kept her safe within his arms.

“The horn sounds three times, Faelivrin,” he said, “We still have time.”

What neither of them knew in fact, in spite of their courage, was that there would come a day, many years away, when they would truly have each other, forever. When they never again would need to count each precious second they had left together, when they never again would have to wait for, to fear, the next moment to tear them apart again. 

They didn’t know it then, but one day, they would be reunited for the last time at last, and all would be well. In spite of all you’ve read and what you may have heard, they would live happily ever after. 

That is how this story will end -- and soon. 


	14. Call and Answer

> “Have you thought of an ending?"
> 
> "Yes, several, and all are dark and unpleasant."
> 
> "Oh, that won't do! Books ought to have good endings. How would this do: and they all settled down and lived together happily ever after?"
> 
> "It will do well, if it ever came to that."
> 
> "Ah! And where will they live? That's what I often wonder.”
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Orodreth glanced out the window at the clock in the courtyard. Almost half past four. He gave a small, satisfied nod, and tapped on the blonde wood of the closed door before him.

“Finduilas? It’s me. Are you decent?”

“Ah, hello, Papa!” his daughter’s voice answered him brightly from inside. “Come in-- I only need a minute.”

So Orodreth deftly turned the doorknob and pushed the door slightly ajar. Finduilas was sitting at the edge of her tidily made bed. She had been toying with a small object, which flashed as she hastily pocketed it-- but not before he saw what it was: a small, spare silver ring set with a brilliant blue tourmaline. 

Finduilas sprang up, pretending she had just finished up braiding her hair. She smiled at her father, with only a slight moment’s hesitation to indicate her mind had been elsewhere just moments ago. 

“Shall we?” said Orodreth.

“Yes!” 

She took her father’s arm, and they set out for the seashore. The seasons never seemed to change here: every day pleasantly sunny; neither too hot nor too cool. Only the changing colors of the  _ mallorn _ leaves outwardly marked the passage of time. Today they were bright gold, sending little showers like sparks onto the flagstones. The leaves rustled softly under their slippers as they walked toward the garden gates. 

There were elves playing chess on the carved benches, elves strolling by embroiled in fascinating discussion, elves simply sitting under the shade of the trees, watching the bubbling fountains. Some of them looked up and smiled as Orodreth and Finduilas passed.

“How have your days been, my daughter?” asked Orodreth. They passed through the gate, which was in fact made of two ancient, living grapevines. He brushed away a tendril that had ensnared a strand of Finduilas’s hair.

“Very good, Papa. Uncle Finrod’s ball last  _ Elenya _ evening was simply splendid-- when the choir sang at the end of dinner, I almost wept. Lady Amarië thought so too. Oh, and Lady Aredhel looked  _ very  _ beautiful, I remember. Her long black hair, she let it all down; not a single pin or braid in it at all-- and she wore all white, as usual…”

She chattered on, but Orodreth couldn’t help but notice that her smile never reached her bright blue eyes; that her hands didn’t fly around her words like swallows the way they used to when she spoke. 

“It sounds,” said Orodreth gently, “Like you had a lovely time.”

“I did, Papa. I truly did.”

“I’m glad… I’m glad...”

Out in the orchard, a gaggle of young children sat cross-legged in a circle on the ground, listening with rapt attention to the words of a slender man with a somewhat mischievous face, whose skin was the very same rich brown of Víressë’s. 

As they came near, Finduilas heard them shouting: “Tell us! Tell us again how you snuck minks and raccoons into your mother’s fur coats--”

“And rabbits! Rabbits, too!”

“And then I want to hear the story of Malorant -- didn’t you feed apples to Malorant when he was a foal? When he lived in the Northwestern Quarter?”

The man grinned. He about to acquiesce when he spotted the two golden-haired elves heading their way. 

“Finduilas!”

His expression of delight was identical to what his sister’s had been. Finduilas laughed and waved back.

“What a lovely day for a story!”

“He was going to tell us about Malorant,” said a stout, red-haired boy seriously, clearly very worried the man would forget to do so, given the interruption by Finduilas and her father.

“Ah, don’t let me stop him!” said Finduilas with a twinkle in her eye, “Malorant was my horse, you know.”

“We know, we know!” said the children excitedly. Finduilas winked over her shoulder as she and Orodreth went on their way.

“Farewell, Lady Finduilas!” the children cried in unison.

Orodreth shook his head, pondering, as the sound of children's voices grew dim behind them. 

“Do you imagine,” he wondered, “That one day, the Fall of Nargothrond; the dragon, that awful sack… will it, too, become mere fodder for children’s tales? Has it really been so long?”

“It has,” said Finduilas, “And yet it has not.”

They walked in silence for a while, both lost in their own memories of the last days of Nargothrond. Finally, Orodreth said bitterly, “What a mess the  _ Mormegil _ made of our lives. And what a fool I was to entangle our fates with his.”

Though Orodreth had long since learned Túrin’s true name, he knew him still by the moniker he had earned when he had dwelt in Nargothrond:  _ Mormegil _ , Black Blade. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Papa,” said Finduilas resolutely, “And nor was it his. Although it’s just as well his fate is sundered from ours forever. He was a hunted man, a tortured one. I do hope that he found his peace in the end. I pity him, Papa. Up to the last day I saw him, I don’t believe he ever truly loved anyone but himself. How terribly lonely that must have been.”

“No, indeed, Finduilas,” Orodreth gravely replied, “And while it’s kind of you to hold me blameless, it is not entirely deserved. The  _ Mormegil _ was strong the way I was weak; he was ruthless where I was cowardly and fallible. I never wanted to be king, and I never was a good one, and I thought that if I listened to that mortal, he would lend me his greatness. And in doing so, I brought the city to its ruin. This I came to see, among many things, in the Halls of Waiting, my daughter; but by far my biggest regret is the way I treated the two of you. You and--”

“That’s enough,” said Finduilas firmly, before he could utter that name aloud. “You did what you thought was best for me, and it well might have been. Now let no grief lie between us, Papa. I’ve forgiven you. That, among many things, I left behind me in the Halls of Waiting.”

They came upon a green field, in a clearing in the orchard. Just then, there was a loud twang and swooping noise, and a man’s voice cried, “Look out!” before the thud of an arrow meeting its mark, dead center of the target nailed to the trunk of an old apple tree a hundred paces away. 

This time it was Orodreth who called out, “Well met, Beleg Cúthalion! And--” he looked a little surprised to be adding, “And Gelmir, son of Guilin!”

“Well met!” Gelmir called back brightly, but Beleg blushed from where he stood with his chest pressed along Gelmir’s back, and his arms around the other man, steadying Gelmir’s bow-hand. 

“Well met, Lord Orodreth,” Beleg muttered, letting go of Gelmir a little too quickly. Finduilas and Orodreth only smiled at one another and walked on, leaving the two to their sport. 

Arm in arm, they continued along the path. They could now hear the rush of the sea in the distance, and feel the tinge of salt in the air. Gulls coasted like paper kites on the windy flurries ahead. Gradually the  _ mallorn _ grove gave way to scrubby brush, and fine white sand peeked through the scattered leaves. 

“It’s all right, you know.”

Finduilas looked up at her father.

“What do you mean?”

“You still miss him. You needn’t hide from me when something upsets you.”

Finduilas sighed. She leaned over and picked up a handful of warm sand, letting it run through her fingers. 

“I know. I didn’t mean to deceive you. It’s just that everyone seems so happy here. We’ve all found each other at last. I don’t want to burden you with my selfish sorrows.”

“There is nothing selfish about your love for him,” said Orodreth, “And I love you, Finduilas. My wish is to bear your sorrows alongside you.”

“Thank you, Papa,” said Finduilas, “I do miss him very much. But his day will come. The day when Lord Manwë sends him onto his ship, out of the Halls, and back into Aman. It could be a year from now, or an age. But it will come. And that day gives me hope. Always.”

Orodreth turned his face away from her and wiped his eye roughly on his shoulder. Her words were so bravely blithe. But she had been hoping, and waiting, for a long time now. 

“Papa? Are you crying?”

“Yes, my daughter. I’m crying. I’m crying because it’s time for you to stop hoping. It’s time for you to have the one you need the most.”

“Oh, Papa…”

He dried his eyes, embraced her, and kissed the crown of her golden head. 

“I’m sorry. You’re so much greater, so much wiser than I’ve ever been. I don’t know how you ever came out of a wretch like me. Of everything my life has amounted to, the best by far is you.”

Finduilas was caught off her guard. Such a display of emotion was very unlike her father. She was at a temporary loss for words, and a little embarrassed.

“Papa,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t be anyone if it weren’t for you. It’s the values we cherish in our hearts, and the deeds we do for the sake of them that make us who we are. And just by loving me, Papa, you shaped my heart in the image of yours.”

She kissed his cheek and offered her arm, and he took it. They slipped off their shoes and picked them up by the heels, walking along the stretch of sand. The turquoise horizon extended as far as the eye could see, glittering in the late afternoon sun. The edge of the ocean lapped delicately at the sloping shore, clear as glass over the broken shells it left behind. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen.”

But once they had gone a mile or so along the water, Orodreth stopped short.

“This is where I leave you.”

Finduilas turned around, puzzled.  
“What? Why?”

Orodreth said nothing in reply. He only smiled inscrutably, held up his hand in a parting gesture, and turned back the way they came. 

Finduilas watched her father’s silhouette shrinking as he walked away. How different Papa was now. She wondered if, perhaps, she would have understood him better had he not sired her. She had never really known him at all as a man.

The sun started to roll westward behind the clouds. A pale yellow glow spread through the entire sky. It was too beautiful for a painting or poem to describe; so perfect it could only have been made better if there was one person there to share it with her. 

Finduilas closed her eyes as the winds of the sea coursed through her hair. It was pretty enough to be a dream. A dream in which, at this very moment, Gwindor might put his hand on her shoulder and say--

“Fae?”

Her eyes snapped open. She whirled around. There he was, as real as the day.

She let out a strangled sound that was half scream and half whimper. Then she leapt into his arms. They held each other too tightly to catch their breath, exclaiming and laughing and crying wordlessly, for there were no words to say. All of her pressed up onto all of him: her cheek to his chest; their thighs, their knees, as though they would never let go. Gwindor and Finduilas remained this way until finally she had to break away for air, and she surveyed him, panting happily.

“You kept this,” she observed, running her eyes over the landscape of his face.

Gwindor nodded, touching the jagged scar that curved upward from the corner of his mouth, just as before.

“To remind me of the price we paid. A scar is a healed wound, after all.”

Finduilas put her fingers to his cheek. The scar remained, but the lines and cares that had been beaten into his flesh were gone. He was strong as he ever was, but somehow the reckless pride with which he once carried himself was quieted.

“I’ve missed you so much, Gwindor,” said Finduilas, “Even now I can’t trust myself to say this isn’t a dream. I’ve had this very dream, you know, a thousand times before.”

In one swift movement, Gwindor lifted her off of the ground and into his arms.

“I’m real, Fae,” he whispered, “Hear me. Touch me. I promise I’m really here. I am the same Gwindor, son of Guilin, who was enslaved in Angband; I returned to Nargothrond a wasted thrall; I fought by your father’s side upon Tumlahad. I dwelt for a time in the Halls of Waiting, but no longer.”

Finduilas only cried harder.

“It’s been so hard for us, Gwindor. It’s hurt so much. It feels like all of me has ached for you for much too long. When they took you; when you came back barely alive; when the Orcs came--”

Gwindor held her as she curled her face into his shoulder, remembering all the wounds they had borne from loving in the world they had come from. He held her until she was no longer shaking, and then he said:

“Let’s forget about the past for now, Fae. The sun is shining just like it used to on the Pools of Ivrin and it gives me joy to see your face. There will be time to dwell on the sadness behind us, and there will be sad times ahead, although they will be few. But look, the water is sublime and everything is golden as far as the eye can see. So why don’t we see which one of us can reach the ocean first?”

Saying his, he set Finduilas down on her feet, grinning at her with the mischief of a child. Without a word, Finduilas took off running down to the waves, and Gwindor ran after her, just a step behind. 

Farther and farther out they went into the tide, until the blue and gold and green of the sea swirled around their elbows. He put his hands on her in the water over the fabric plastered on her wet body; she took flight from his shoulders and he lifted her as he used to when they had played in the great river in the summer. In those days, as each passing sunny day blended into the next, he would have sworn their love was constant, unflagging, and inviolate.

But he had been wrong. The love between him and Finduilas had never been constant. Though it had started as a simple, joyful, pure thing, it had grown up to be tumultuous, ever-shifting, and riotously alive as the river itself. And like a living thing it had groaned, and wept, and battled to survive. 

He watched her straighten up among the waves glowing under the setting sun, brushing seaweed out of her golden hair and looking at him with her deep blue eyes. She reached down and gathered the dripping ends of her skirt so she could tie it in a knot just above her knees.

He realized that, for the first time in his entire life, nothing hurt at all. 

Gwindor splashed over to her and once more gathered her wet body in his arms. He looked full into her face, and kissed her, once, sweetly, on her salty lips. 

They lived together, by the shores of Eldamar, happily ever after. 

The End


	15. Chapter 15

> “Have you thought of an ending?"
> 
> "Yes, several, and all are dark and unpleasant."
> 
> "Oh, that won't do! Books ought to have good endings. How would this do: and they all settled down and lived together happily ever after?"
> 
> "It will do well, if it ever came to that."
> 
> "Ah! And where will they live? That's what I often wonder.”
> 
> \-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Orodreth glanced out the window at the clock in the courtyard. Almost half past four. He gave a small, satisfied nod, and tapped on the blonde wood of the closed door before him.

“Finduilas? It’s me. Are you decent?”

“Ah, hello, Papa!” his daughter’s voice answered him brightly from inside. “Come in-- I only need a minute.”

So Orodreth deftly turned the doorknob and pushed the door slightly ajar. Finduilas was sitting at the edge of her tidily made bed. She had been toying with a small object, which flashed as she hastily pocketed it-- but not before he saw what it was: a small, spare silver ring set with a brilliant blue tourmaline. 

Finduilas sprang up, pretending she had just finished up braiding her hair. She smiled at her father, with only a slight moment’s hesitation to indicate her mind had been elsewhere just moments ago. 

“Shall we?” said Orodreth.

“Yes!” 

She took her father’s arm, and they set out for the seashore. The seasons never seemed to change here: every day pleasantly sunny; neither too hot nor too cool. Only the changing colors of the  _ mallorn _ leaves outwardly marked the passage of time. Today they were bright gold, sending little showers like sparks onto the flagstones. The leaves rustled softly under their slippers as they walked toward the garden gates. 

There were elves playing chess on the carved benches, elves strolling by embroiled in fascinating discussion, elves simply sitting under the shade of the trees, watching the bubbling fountains. Some of them looked up and smiled as Orodreth and Finduilas passed.

“How have your days been, my daughter?” asked Orodreth. They passed through the gate, which was in fact made of two ancient, living grapevines. He brushed away a tendril that had ensnared a strand of Finduilas’s hair.

“Very good, Papa. Uncle Finrod’s ball last  _ Elenya _ evening was simply splendid-- when the choir sang at the end of dinner, I almost wept. Lady Amarië thought so too. Oh, and Lady Aredhel looked  _ very  _ beautiful, I remember. Her long black hair, she let it all down; not a single pin or braid in it at all-- and she wore all white, as usual…”

She chattered on, but Orodreth couldn’t help but notice that her smile never reached her bright blue eyes; that her hands didn’t fly around her words like swallows the way they used to when she spoke. 

“It sounds,” said Orodreth gently, “Like you had a lovely time.”

“I did, Papa. I truly did.”

“I’m glad… I’m glad...”

Out in the orchard, a gaggle of young children sat cross-legged in a circle on the ground, listening with rapt attention to the words of a slender man with a somewhat mischievous face, whose skin was the very same rich brown of Víressë’s. 

As they came near, Finduilas heard them shouting: “Tell us! Tell us again how you snuck minks and raccoons into your mother’s fur coats--”

“And rabbits! Rabbits, too!”

“And then I want to hear the story of Malorant -- didn’t you feed apples to Malorant when he was a foal? When he lived in the Northwestern Quarter?”

The man grinned. He about to acquiesce when he spotted the two golden-haired elves heading their way. 

“Finduilas!”

His expression of delight was identical to what his sister’s had been. Finduilas laughed and waved back.

“What a lovely day for a story!”

“He was going to tell us about Malorant,” said a stout, red-haired boy seriously, clearly very worried the man would forget to do so, given the interruption by Finduilas and her father.

“Ah, don’t let me stop him!” said Finduilas with a twinkle in her eye, “Malorant was my horse, you know.”

“We know, we know!” said the children excitedly. Finduilas winked over her shoulder as she and Orodreth went on their way.

“Farewell, Lady Finduilas!” the children cried in unison.

Orodreth shook his head, pondering, as the sound of children's voices grew dim behind them. 

“Do you imagine,” he wondered, “That one day, the Fall of Nargothrond; the dragon, that awful sack… will it, too, become mere fodder for children’s tales? Has it really been so long?”

“It has,” said Finduilas, “And yet it has not.”

They walked in silence for a while, both lost in their own memories of the last days of Nargothrond. Finally, Orodreth said bitterly, “What a mess the  _ Mormegil _ made of our lives. And what a fool I was to entangle our fates with his.”

Though Orodreth had long since learned Túrin’s true name, he knew him still by the moniker he had earned when he had dwelt in Nargothrond:  _ Mormegil _ , Black Blade. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Papa,” said Finduilas resolutely, “And nor was it his. Although it’s just as well his fate is sundered from ours forever. He was a hunted man, a tortured one. I do hope that he found his peace in the end. I pity him, Papa. Up to the last day I saw him, I don’t believe he ever truly loved anyone but himself. How terribly lonely that must have been.”

“No, indeed, Finduilas,” Orodreth gravely replied, “And while it’s kind of you to hold me blameless, it is not entirely deserved. The  _ Mormegil _ was strong the way I was weak; he was ruthless where I was cowardly and fallible. I never wanted to be king, and I never was a good one, and I thought that if I listened to that mortal, he would lend me his greatness. And in doing so, I brought the city to its ruin. This I came to see, among many things, in the Halls of Waiting, my daughter; but by far my biggest regret is the way I treated the two of you. You and--”

“That’s enough,” said Finduilas firmly, before he could utter that name aloud. “You did what you thought was best for me, and it well might have been. Now let no grief lie between us, Papa. I’ve forgiven you. That, among many things, I left behind me in the Halls of Waiting.”

They came upon a green field, in a clearing in the orchard. Just then, there was a loud twang and swooping noise, and a man’s voice cried, “Look out!” before the thud of an arrow meeting its mark, dead center of the target nailed to the trunk of an old apple tree a hundred paces away. 

This time it was Orodreth who called out, “Well met, Beleg Cúthalion! And--” he looked a little surprised to be adding, “And Gelmir, son of Guilin!”

“Well met!” Gelmir called back brightly, but Beleg blushed from where he stood with his chest pressed along Gelmir’s back, and his arms around the other man, steadying Gelmir’s bow-hand. 

“Well met, Lord Orodreth,” Beleg muttered, letting go of Gelmir a little too quickly. Finduilas and Orodreth only smiled at one another and walked on, leaving the two to their sport. 

Arm in arm, they continued along the path. They could now hear the rush of the sea in the distance, and feel the tinge of salt in the air. Gulls coasted like paper kites on the windy flurries ahead. Gradually the  _ mallorn _ grove gave way to scrubby brush, and fine white sand peeked through the scattered leaves. 

“It’s all right, you know.”

Finduilas looked up at her father.

“What do you mean?”

“You still miss him. You needn’t hide from me when something upsets you.”

Finduilas sighed. She leaned over and picked up a handful of warm sand, letting it run through her fingers. 

“I know. I didn’t mean to deceive you. It’s just that everyone seems so happy here. We’ve all found each other at last. I don’t want to burden you with my selfish sorrows.”

“There is nothing selfish about your love for him,” said Orodreth, “And I love you, Finduilas. My wish is to bear your sorrows alongside you.”

“Thank you, Papa,” said Finduilas, “I do miss him very much. But his day will come. The day when Lord Manwë sends him onto his ship, out of the Halls, and back into Aman. It could be a year from now, or an age. But it will come. And that day gives me hope. Always.”

Orodreth turned his face away from her and wiped his eye roughly on his shoulder. Her words were so bravely blithe. But she had been hoping, and waiting, for a long time now. 

“Papa? Are you crying?”

“Yes, my daughter. I’m crying. I’m crying because it’s time for you to stop hoping. It’s time for you to have the one you need the most.”

“Oh, Papa…”

He dried his eyes, embraced her, and kissed the crown of her golden head. 

“I’m sorry. You’re so much greater, so much wiser than I’ve ever been. I don’t know how you ever came out of a wretch like me. Of everything my life has amounted to, the best by far is you.”

Finduilas was caught off her guard. Such a display of emotion was very unlike her father. She was at a temporary loss for words, and a little embarrassed.

“Papa,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t be anyone if it weren’t for you. It’s the values we cherish in our hearts, and the deeds we do for the sake of them that make us who we are. And just by loving me, Papa, you shaped my heart in the image of yours.”

She kissed his cheek and offered her arm, and he took it. They slipped off their shoes and picked them up by the heels, walking along the stretch of sand. The turquoise horizon extended as far as the eye could see, glittering in the late afternoon sun. The edge of the ocean lapped delicately at the sloping shore, clear as glass over the broken shells it left behind. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen.”

But once they had gone a mile or so along the water, Orodreth stopped short.

“This is where I leave you.”

Finduilas turned around, puzzled.  
“What? Why?”

Orodreth said nothing in reply. He only smiled inscrutably, held up his hand in a parting gesture, and turned back the way they came. 

Finduilas watched her father’s silhouette shrinking as he walked away. How different Papa was now. She wondered if, perhaps, she would have understood him better had he not sired her. She had never really known him at all as a man.

The sun started to roll westward behind the clouds. A pale yellow glow spread through the entire sky. It was too beautiful for a painting or poem to describe; so perfect it could only have been made better if there was one person there to share it with her. 

Finduilas closed her eyes as the winds of the sea coursed through her hair. It was pretty enough to be a dream. A dream in which, at this very moment, Gwindor might put his hand on her shoulder and say--

“Fae?”

Her eyes snapped open. She whirled around. There he was, as real as the day.

She let out a strangled sound that was half scream and half whimper. Then she leapt into his arms. They held each other too tightly to catch their breath, exclaiming and laughing and crying wordlessly, for there were no words to say. All of her pressed up onto all of him: her cheek to his chest; their thighs, their knees, as though they would never let go. Gwindor and Finduilas remained this way until finally she had to break away for air, and she surveyed him, panting happily.

“You kept this,” she observed, running her eyes over the landscape of his face.

Gwindor nodded, touching the jagged scar that curved upward from the corner of his mouth, just as before.

“To remind me of the price we paid. A scar is a healed wound, after all.”

Finduilas put her fingers to his cheek. The scar remained, but the lines and cares that had been beaten into his flesh were gone. He was strong as he ever was, but somehow the reckless pride with which he once carried himself was quieted.

“I’ve missed you so much, Gwindor,” said Finduilas, “Even now I can’t trust myself to say this isn’t a dream. I’ve had this very dream, you know, a thousand times before.”

In one swift movement, Gwindor lifted her off of the ground and into his arms.

“I’m real, Fae,” he whispered, “Hear me. Touch me. I promise I’m really here. I am the same Gwindor, son of Guilin, who was enslaved in Angband; I returned to Nargothrond a wasted thrall; I fought by your father’s side upon Tumlahad. I dwelt for a time in the Halls of Waiting, but no longer.”

Finduilas only cried harder.

“It’s been so hard for us, Gwindor. It’s hurt so much. It feels like all of me has ached for you for much too long. When they took you; when you came back barely alive; when the Orcs came--”

Gwindor held her as she curled her face into his shoulder, remembering all the wounds they had borne from loving in the world they had come from. He held her until she was no longer shaking, and then he said:

“Let’s forget about the past for now, Fae. The sun is shining just like it used to on the Pools of Ivrin and it gives me joy to see your face. There will be time to dwell on the sadness behind us, and there will be sad times ahead, although they will be few. But look, the water is sublime and everything is golden as far as the eye can see. So why don’t we see which one of us can reach the ocean first?”

Saying his, he set Finduilas down on her feet, grinning at her with the mischief of a child. Without a word, Finduilas took off running down to the waves, and Gwindor ran after her, just a step behind. 

Farther and farther out they went into the tide, until the blue and gold and green of the sea swirled around their elbows. He put his hands on her in the water over the fabric plastered on her wet body; she took flight from his shoulders and he lifted her as he used to when they had played in the great river in the summer. In those days, as each passing sunny day blended into the next, he would have sworn their love was constant, unflagging, and inviolate.

But he had been wrong. The love between him and Finduilas had never been constant. Though it had started as a simple, joyful, pure thing, it had grown up to be tumultuous, ever-shifting, and riotously alive as the river itself. And like a living thing it had groaned, and wept, and battled to survive. 

He watched her straighten up among the waves glowing under the setting sun, brushing seaweed out of her golden hair and looking at him with her deep blue eyes. She reached down and gathered the dripping ends of her skirt so she could tie it in a knot just above her knees.

He realized that, for the first time in his entire life, nothing hurt at all. 

Gwindor splashed over to her and once more gathered her wet body in his arms. He looked full into her face, and kissed her, once, sweetly, on her salty lips. 

They lived together, by the shores of Eldamar, happily ever after. 

The End


End file.
